Let Your Games Begin
by The Other Perspective
Summary: I slid down a palm trunk, well away from their camp, and buried my face in my hands. Wanting to curl up and die. Wanting to take the Capitol down for making a Game that could tear me apart like this. That could control my head like this. *complete*
1. Reapings

*UPDATES at bottom*

**A look into the thoughts of your Gamemaker:  
**Would you look at us. We've apparently been reported and… well, we're still here. I take that to mean the world isn't going to spontaneously combust for this Fic anytime soon—kindly disregard my previous freak-out. I'm unpredictable this way… you can never trace the path of my thoughts, even if you leave breadcrumbs… your tributes better watch their backs in the arena (which, by the way, has been decided upon).

And I'd also like to point out that, according to the rules, interactive FanFics are just as banned AS TYPING IN ALL CAPS and not useing SpellCheck. Relieving, isn't it?

**And now…  
****Take a deep breath. And pray your name is far out of reach from the Capitol's groping hand, because it's Reaping time.**

"_I present Ida Topia, your female District three tribute!"_

I fidgeted to get the blue bow on my hip to sit straight as the Capitol voice from the screen echoed over us. One nasty thread kept pulling it off a bit to the left- the inner pleats refused to be horizontal. I didn't personally like the feature, but then again, the whole Reaping number hadn't been my idea. The two masterminds behind my outfit had their heads peeking over the other girls in the 12's section. My baby sisters. My angels.

Jaw clenched, I re-focused my attention to the huge TV screen to match every other pair of eyes in Salttide Square-the largest meeting place in 4. The live broadcast of the Reapings prior to ours had just featured a close-up shot on a lanky girl's bony face. Their Capitol representative presented her as District 3's female tribute, before the cameras zeroed in on the hand in the male reaping ball. The fingers sorted through the slips, waiting to touch just the right one…

The representative pulled it out upside-down. She giggled to herself as she fixed it, squinting at the paper before yelling, "Charles Hunter!"

The shot swooped over the crowd, waiting to detect any movement. It finally came to rest on a slight shuffling in the boy's fourteens section. Zooming in to the heart of the movement, we all watched as Charles Hunter, a relatively short boy, was pushed away from the pack. His steps toward the stage were odd, tripping on every other movement. It took me a moment to register this as a limp in his left leg- smugness settled comfortably in my gut. Maybe this killing thing won't be so hard after all…

We tracked his bobbing black head up to the stage, mounting the steps with surprising ease. Only then did we get a close-up of his face, as he shook hands with the representative. Fury, not fear, burned behind his blue eyes- but as startling as that was, it was the eyes themselves that drew gasps from the audience. His left eye's cool color boiled icy-hot in unspoken hatred of this woman with whom he was making a friendly, partnering gesture. But his right eye… a bright white scar was scraped from hairline to jaw, creating grotesque ridges in his crumpled eyelids. Whoever had cut him hadn't missed the eye itself- it's color was milkier than the other, the pupil less concise, the iris stretched a bit to flow in the scar's direction. This oddly reminded me of long evenings, sitting on the dock with a long stick in my grasp, drawing a single line through a patch of sea foam suspended on the water's surface. The foam always morphed to follow the direction of my stick, reaching out with a new arm for it…

_Maybe he's blind in that eye_, I consoled myself. _That gives him _two_ disabilities_.

But no amount of consoling could erase from my mind the look of pure hatred that rode that sliced face so well.

"_And now, your tributes of District Three: Ida Topia and Charles Hunter!"_

One last camera shot of the two tributes, now shaking hands with each other (the poor girl looked like she was about to faint), before the screen went black. As large white words formed, our mayor hurriedly straightened his silver tie and smoothed his whisps of white hair from his position behind the podium. The words read:

_**District 4  
**__Capital of Fishing Industries  
__Mayor Seaquin Caps_

All the large cameras hovering over our heads trained themselves on Mayor Caps as he began to solemnly speak. I could hardly absorb his reading of the Treaty of Treason for the vat of nervous excitement boiling in my gut. Seven years of planning. I'd been waiting for this day for so _long_. And I was ready-calculated, crunched and confirmed. I repeated to myself how silly it was to be nervous- I'd rehearsed this moment countless times in front of my own reflection and just to the open ocean, standing on the familiar sand that wormed its way between my toes. Begging me to stay longer, knowing I had to leave. To fight.

The shock of color on the stage made me blink back sudden wetness in my eyes. Apparently Mayor Caps had finished and our escort had made an appearance- these Capitol people and their _clothes_. A hand emerged from beneath all the fabric and into the bowl, and I took in a huge breath of salty air to cool my nerves.

"Pearl Weedeta!"

Not my name. Not by a longshot. Pearl was a girl in my sister's school, slightly ill in the head.

I waited for the poor little girl to be led up to the stage by another pale 12-year-old. I stood, heart racing, waiting as she climbed the steps agonizingly slowly. Any minute now… I'd already planned not to yell out before being politely asked. Then I would seem crazy, for willingly throwing myself into what they saw as almost guaranteed death. No, now- with an adorable, mentally ill girl that I appeared to be saving- now I would just look like a compassionate teen. A doomed, compassionate teen.

"Any volunteers?" the Capitol voice piped.

I physically took a step forward, getting a considerable bit of attention. Any movement I made would be easy to spot in this group of shrimpy 17-year-old girls. At 5'11", I towered over them all.

"I, Callista Cade, volunteer as tribute." A huge dose of relief graced my veins after the statement came out smoothly.

Pearl looked like she was about to collapse of gratitude, in her own odd way. She made an incomprehensible noise and staggered forward a few feet before the same girl as before hurried her offstage. The crowds parted like the sea making way for a goddess- people stepped back from my lean frame, eyes glued to my ever-serious face. I made my way down this new path and shook the unnaturally hot hand that protruded from the Capitol outfit. I didn't need her whispered prompt to know where to stand, facing the crowd with jaw-set determination.

I didn't see anything but the remarkably blue sky. Two clouds floated over its broad canvas, giving the only hint that I wasn't looking at the sea from afar. But I still pretended I was. For the sake of last comforts to my jumping nerves.

"Sebastian Aquearus?"

A question mark slipped its way into the Capitol accent. I'd never, ever heard that name before- which came with slight relief. If it had been someone from my school, or worse yet, Jarvis himself, my confidence would have been hurt slightly. I couldn't kill my best friend. I would probably have had to hand the weapon to him and ask him to run _me_ through with it.

My gaze slid from the skies to the crowd, where a typical 4 boy was detaching himself from the 18's with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his shorts. He looked about ready for a swim- and nothing more than slightly disappointed that that wasn't going to work out.

On the stage, he flashed a wary smile in the direction of the girl's 18s.

"Would anyone like to volunteer?" the Capitol accent tweeted as the huge screen was filled with this guy's face. He wasn't half-bad looking, actually. White-blond hair, startlingly blue eyes—

"I volunteer!" a thick voice called from the 18's. Another, thicker boy sprung from the pack with relative ease. He wasted no time in getting to the stage to stand next to the slightly-bewildered-looking Sebastian.

"And _what's_ your name?" our representative asked.

"Neveah Bosun," he said, voice strong enough for me to easily hear him without to microphone. But the Capitol-ite leaned back to it again, facing the cameras to announce, "Neveah Bosun, everyone!"

Sebastian clapped Neveah on the back in a sort of thanks-for-saving-my-life-but-you're-_so_-not-coming-back way as he returned to his pen to the whoops and happy yells of many others. Almost nobody watched Neveah, standing solidly off to the side with me. Our eyes only met once, and immediately swept away- there. A greeting. A grudging admittance that we were both going into this, and that we're both Careers. I quietly eye his thick arms and black tee shirt that does little to conceal the carved strength of his chest. An ally, I decided off the bat. A Career, and an ally.

Just as I'd planned.

"_I give you our District four tributes; Callista Cade and Neveah Bosun… _

_May I present the tributes of District five; Lilia Copper and Matthew Ply… _

_And as a reminder of our great Capitol's overall power, we send our children to the ultimate Game… _

_Now for our female tribute…"_

The dread shoots through my stomach before the name is even read allowed. I knew. I had that feeling, that sickening feeling that you get right before something bad happens. Because you already know. It's not a surprise when my name is murdered by a Capitol accent, but that doesn't mean my dread lightens at all. Feeling my stomach freeze over and knowing that I'm never going to see 6 again isn't what really sets off the tears. It's Jenna-sweet, optimistic Jenna- when her face cripples and she gives me a look that's beyond despair. She leans over the tape separating the 17s girls from the 17s guys, her blotty features disappearing into Jake's grey tee shirt. He slowly returns her embrace, rubbing soothing circles on the stress spot of her spine before lifting his emerald eyes to mine. "_Analyse_."

I don't need his soundless mouthing to know it's time to go. Tears rolling in an uncloggable stream now, I float, dream-like, to the platform, no weight registering on the pads of my feet, no beat heard slamming around my chest. I don't feel at all like the girl who has trouble making friends due to shyness- I don't feel like the girl who spends lazy afternoons on her bed, ticking away at a Rubix cube to see how fast she can do it blindfolded… Because it couldn't _possibly_ be Analyse Fellows who's heading off to slaughter. She has too many odds in her favor…

"_Analyse Fellows and Raymond Heartly, the tributes of District six…_

_The spirit of the Games carries down through generations…_

_District seven tributes, Daniella Patchin and Kresley Mulch…_

_We always keep in mind the Capitol's command, knowing that it's only fools that attempt to oppose…"_

Warm thumbs stroked her cheeks, massaging comfort into their tear-stained surface. Her eyes slid shut, letting Adam's breath and touch absorb the unshed tears. He always knew how to calm the crazed rush of emotions that constantly blazed inside her-knew the right words, the right touch, the right silences to release the unexplainable tears.

"Two weeks, Baize," he said softly, one hand moving off her smooth face and down her arm, leaving warm tingles in its path. A smile gently curved the edges of her small lips. His hand glided down her wrist and briefly captured her left hand, lean fingers continuing to slip away until only his fingertips supported hers. "Two weeks until you're mine for life."

There was a smile in his voice- the kind that made his silky brown eyes sparkle and the edges of his brow tilt up the tiniest bit. That was her favorite smile and he knew it-her flecked green eyes re-opened, and with them a full-blown smile. Her wedding was perhaps the only thing that could lift her constantly-weighted spirits on Reaping day. Every night, she dreamed of herself in a filmy white dress, striding with confidence to where Adam stood in a sleek new suit, his golden-red hair disshelved as it normally is because she couldn't imagine it any other way. His face lit up, and hers dry for once- the only tears she would shed would be those of pure joy. She's young. She's in love. All the people who purposely cross the street as to not have to pass her will finally leave her alone- all those who laugh at her daily break-downs because they think she's just the crazy girl. The one who will often descend into tears for reasons nobody understands. All that will go away…

"What if I'm picked?" she persisted realistically, her moment of joy wearing off quickly to the gloom of the day.

Adam wasn't unreasonable—she loved how he never tried to sugar-coat anything for her, how he respected her enough to give her the truth. "You could be- but out of all the girls in eight…"

"What if I don't come back?" she squeaked.

"That's assuming you're leaving in the first place," he said, pulling her gently to his side with a protective arm. How she wished he could protect her from this, the only obstacle left between them and their marriage. She wished he could guarantee that her slip would stay safely on the bottom of the jar… but they were both too smart to count out the possibility of Baize being reaped. She blinked back more tears, determined to stay strong today.

"I wish I was nineteen," she said quietly, her face pressed against his familiar chest.

"So do I… I wish there was no Reaping," he murmured back, hands sliding up and down her back in comforting patterns she could fall asleep to. There they stood, in Adam's kitchen, for a countless amount of time, soaking up each other's company with every cell.

"If you don't come back," he finally said, so low Baize could hardly make out his words. "Don't think the wedding's off. I'll just have to come to meet you." He took a breath that she could feel rattle in his lungs. Her silent tears soaked a dark patch in his nice Reaping shirt as he continued. "And it will be the grandest, most beautiful wedding you can imagine. We can have your grandparents there, and little Joe. And my father can make it all official. My mother will be in the front row, crying her eyes out of course- out of pride that her son has finally found a perfect girl.

"And we can live more grandly than we ever would here. Together- for the rest of time."

"_I give you the tributes of District eight; Baize Claremont and Micheal Roe…_

_The Games tear us apart, they break bonds that we aforethought were unbreakable, with the strength of our Capitol's hand…_

_Female tribute: Suzu Sendora…"_

They're wrong. Of course they're wrong. There's no other explanation—I'll have to tell then when I get to the stage.

I don't feel any of their eyes as I shove my way to the podium. My mouth opens in thoughtless speech—but then my escort hands me my slip. _Suzu Sendora_. Written in my own hand, only a few months ago. I've changed the way I write my _z_'s since then… but that's the only difference. There's no question of whom it belongs to, and any barrier of denial I had crashes around my ankles. I feel the color leave my face and the feeling leave my limbs, ice taking a lock hold on my chest. I'm going to die. I'm going to compete in the Games… and die. There's no weapon I can wield with experience, there's no _way_ I could ever kill somebody who isn't a Peacekeeper, there's—

The Reaping continues, a buzz of noise and color in the foreground of my mind while the back clicks away. But there are Peacekeeper's _children_ in the arena. District 2-ites. Careers, I knew from a life of watching the Games on TV, but being a Career doesn't make you death-proof. And I wouldn't even feel guilty after slaughtering them like the pigs they are—if their fathers can kill my father with useless reasons, I can kill their children with vengeful ones. Fair trade.

My hand is suddenly encased in someone else's. Snapping jerkily back to the Reaping, I see that Thepro Hile, a guy from my Language class, is worriedly shaking my unresponsive hand. His eyes plead with me to make this easy, and for the time being, I do; returning the shake like a good sport and silently plotting the 2's death.

"_Your District nine tributes, Suzu Sendora and Thepro Hile!_

_Our respected Capitol generously supports all of us in return for measly items- a debt we will never pay off…_

_Lyle Claus, your District ten female tribute…_

_Any volunteers?"_

She never actually had any plans for what she did. The words just spill out of her mouth before her thoughts caught up. "I volunteer!"

The uncomfortable weight of Panem's huge eyes is suddenly on her face, her flushing cheeks. A loud guffah from the back of the crowd powers her feet to mount the steps to the grand entry to her death. From this new vantage point, she can identify the source of the noise: her father, utterly drunk, tottering around behind some disgusted-looking parents.

"That's… 's my daughter!" he laughs, spilling a bit of the liquid in the clear bottle in his grasp. The crowd is utterly silent otherwise, drawing all attention to the drunk and his rueful daughter, who stood displayed on a stage for everyone to see.

"Idn't… idn't she a pretty one?" His voice broke off into wheezing, drunken laughter. Sora's face turned an even darker red in anger and embarrassment.

The answer to the voice in her head that pleaded _why-why volunteer? _came with natural ease.

_To get away from him, _she decided with a tone of finality, as the man was sick all over a woman's fancy shoes._ Take me away. Let me die. Get me away from that _thing.

A sudden scuffle of noise drew her attention- a boy in the very back of the 12's was having some sort of interaction with an older girl who was leaning over the rope…

"A _goat horn_?" I whispered with a tiny laugh. "How much will I actually need a goat horn?"

"It's not what you need, it's what reminds you of home," Rose whispered back impatiently under the cover of the loud drunk laughs of a man behind her. She studied my disbelieving expression for a moment before letting a tiny smile touch her lips. "It's only your first year anyway… I'll think of something better next Reaping."

"Alright," I said grudgingly, accepting the black horn with a touch of embarrassment. "Love you," I added nonchalantly as she melted back with the adults and post-18 siblings.

Only then did my ears pick up on what everyone else was already muttering about.

"Arrett Hayes? Arrett?" A ridiculous Capitol giggle. "Is there an Arrett Hayes out there?"

Dread filled my gut. Really? On my very first Reaping… Rose had said I shouldn't really worry-it's the older guys who have all the bad luck…

_Is this seriously happening?_ The one line continually ran through my head, over and over and over again like a printed banner on a revolving roll. I didn't quite feel the Capitol escort's handshake, neither the one from the girl onstage.

_Can I really do this? I have my hunting skills from all these years, and am woods-smart… but I'm only twelve. Just a measly redhead twelve-year-old from 10. If I'm not smashed by the Careers at the Cornucopia_- I'm making a run for it, I'm already deciding as the crowd is applauding their tributes. –I'm making a run for it. Hiding. In a tree, maybe. But I'll need to get to the Cornucopia to get any weapons…

Thoughts buzzing, plans taking shape in my head, I catch Rose's worried gaze in the crowd. My confidence has lifted considerably since two minutes ago, and I shoot her an assuring smile. _Just you wait, Rosie_._ I'm going to make it out of this one. Goat horn in tact._

"_I present the tributes of District ten; Sora Keiler and Arrett Hayes…_

_In the end, the Games are a time of celebration and mourning…_

_May I present Rosa Hertbranch, our female tribute of District eleven!"_

Everyone craned their necks to see the bony girl being shoved away from the pack of 16's. She tottered a bit on bony ankles, glancing around bewilderedly at her sudden audience before one of the other girls called to her, "The stage, Rose!"

Sparrow chuckled quietly from his position in the 16's boys. The poor girl didn't have a chance- he'd only ever seen her around school, but she had this twiggy, unstable way about her that gave you the impression a gentle breeze could sweep her off her feet. Wary applause trickled over the crowd, but it was easily seen through as false.

Drumming his long, lean fingers against his thigh, his pale blue eyes searched not the stage, where everyone else's were, but the girl's 15s pen. The twins stood slightly taller than the other girls, making them relatively easy to spot. Sparrow could see how their shoulders were relaxed in breaths of relief- Violet turned around to give him the "all-good" symbol; two fingers extended horizontally to the left. A smile jumped to his lips as he returned it, silently planning to get them all special Reaping day apples for dinner—which shouldn't be that hard, just a risky trip to the orchard—

"River Kingston!"

His tapping fingers froze as he felt all the eyes in his general vicinity glance worriedly at him. Not that it was _his_ name that had been called. Or his baby brother, Falcon's. Violet had been lucky, Lilac had been lucky, even Sparrow, the oldest with as much tessare as he could possibly have, had been lucky. But little River, only thirteen years old and about as vicious as their tender mother…

He wouldn't make it five minutes. The other, bigger tributes would stake him without a second thought about his huge family back in 11, or the guilt his older brother would have to suffer…

"No-wait! Don't take him," Sparrow was suddenly yelling, elbowing his way out of his pen and over the tape. "Take me- I volunteer!"

As usual, his words pre-dated his thoughts. In this instant, however, it actually seemed to be a good thing; River hadn't even made it out of his pen.

"Sparrow…" River said mournfully; the voice he usually kept reserved for when his older brother came home with blood dripping from the scrapes on his back.

"I'll be find-listen to your sisters," Sparrow hardly had time to mutter as he passed his brother on the way to the podium. He hoped River wouldn't watch him die-maybe he'd close his eyes or bury his face in one of the twin's hair, but not watch. He's already seen too much blood in his life without watching his idol be murdered.

Taking his place in center stage next to Rosa, who was shaking like a leaf, Sparrow took one last long breath of the ever soil-y air of 11. God, he's going to miss this place. And his siblings. His strong father. Warm mother. Caring friends.

Gone.

"_Rosa Hertbranch and Sparrow Kingston, everyone…_

… _A reminder of our Great Capitol's firm hand, and a tradition that marks Panem for the unique nation it is…"_

"No, the one behind him, Aislian," Schuyler hisses in my ear, unheard under the drawl of the mayor's voice. I know she's seriously vying for my attention by the use of my full name-how easily impressed she was…

"Him? But he's so…" I'd never understood my twin's fascination with the opposite sex; they just seemed like bigger, stupider versions of us to me. Give or take few physical changes, but still nothing worth whispering about in our Reaping pen.

"Hot?" She sighs almost silently in exasperation. "Well, he's better closer up. Like, his nose is smaller…"

"Sh!" I cut her off as the mayor's drawl shifts into an open-ended silence before a few wary hands smack together. The same Capitol ditz we get every year clanks up to the Reaping balls on painfully high heels and chirps something pitchily into the mic. Her thin hand dips into the ball.

"Isn't his name O'Connor?" Skye whispers to me. "He looks like that Ben boy from Music, except older—"

"Schuyler Lieds!"

The voice is loud enough to echo around the sagging shoulders of dozens of relieved girls, and one suddenly frozen one. Her lips were still soundlessly pronouncing 'older', her eyes widened slightly. Seeing the color drain from her face, of course I did it. There was no thought to the action, just pure protective instinct.

"I volunteer," I called out, but I hadn't needed to raise my voice to be heard. Anybody with eyes could see that we were twins- identical oval-shaped grey eyes and high, curving cheekbones, exact same shade of olive undertones in our skin- and nobody liked to see twins split. They all stood watching, holding their breaths as I gave Skye one last parting glance and stride to the stage, trying to keep any sign of emotion from stirring features. In the silence, her outburst was like thunder clapping.

"_Ash!_" It was an exclamation of disbelief, of annoyance. I stopped, halfway down the path the remaining kids had cleared for me, to turn back to my sister. She rushed up to overtake me. "I refuse!" she announced, apparently not knowing the correct word. "I refuse her volunteering, and I re-volunteer!"

Though her terminology was a bit shaky, everyone understood. The Capitol lady leaned in to the mic to announce our new tribute, but I didn't give her the air.

"No-don't be stupid, Skye! I'm going!"

"I'm... older!" she protested bravely, though I could see how her frame shook slightly with bottled fear. My own heart was racing to an undetermined finish line, bursting at the confines of my chest. With excitement, though. My system was a stranger to fear.

"By what, _eight minutes_?"

"I'm chosen! I'm going!"

"You can't _handle_ it, Skye," I said, my tone much harsher than I'd ever used with her before. The seriousness in my tone silenced her for a moment as we stared each other down. Fear clouded behind her eyes, and her lips were pressed together as barriers containing a scream. Her nostrils flared, and she spoke with definite clarity as she proposed, "Fine. Rock, paper, scissors."

It seems childish, but it's really a rather effective way to decide something without too much brainpower. Never before had it been a matter of depression or death.

We raised our fists, resting on our opposite hands, and began the slow beat.

"Rock.. paper… _scissors_." Skye's voiced failed to a whisper as her hand sat, two fingers extended, staring pathetically at my fist. Instead of smashing her scissors, I took her hand in mine.

"You always choose scissors," I say softly.

Then I proceed to the doors of Hell.

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, your District twelve tributes, Aislin Lieds and Darious Flint!_

_Sponsors, far and wide, we have our twenty-four tributes! Though all exceptional and unique to this year, ten of them have been receiving noteworthy attention… Charles Hunter, the angry boy with the scar from Three… Callista Cade, the tall, determined girl volunteering from Four… Neveah Bosun, the steady-headed mass of muscle from Four… Analyse Fellows, the untalkative girl from Six… Baize Claremont, the teary eighteen-year-old from Eight… Suzu Sendora, the vengeful girl from Nine… Sora Keiler, the blushing girl with the drunk father from Ten… Arrett Hayes, the tiny yet spiteful twelve-year old of Ten… Sparrow Kingston, the feather-haired volunteer of Eleven… and Aislin Leids, the firey twin of Twelve. Who stands out to you? To whom would you entrust your sponsorship? Who will be the first to die…_

_Confused?_

_ Welcome to the Games, children. May the odds be _ever_ in your favor."_

_.:!.Topsy:!:._

_Start earning your Sponsor points now, good people of FanFiction.  
__Remember, a serious review about the writing and/or character portrayments is worth 2 points. Check over Chapter One for other ways to earn points… and what you'll be able to spend them on in the arena.  
__I'm always keeping track._

**UPDATE:**

Our next large event is the presentation of our tributes to Panem. We're in need of stylists with unique designs! **PM me with the below template filled out to the fourth question. I'll let you know how to proceed. **

I'm only accepting one stylist from each "focus" District (3,6,8,9,10,11,12) and 4 is already taken. Keep in mind that some focus Districts have one tribute, some have two—either way, there's only one stylist to do all the designs for that District.

Stylist Template:

_First Name:_

_Works for which focus tribute(s):_

_Appearance (including _their_ clothing styles):_

_Quote:_

**Only PM me with that much, and I will reply with more specific details about that tribute that may help with your designs. **Any information I share with you about tributes is confidential—**DO NOT share anything I PM you with anyone else**. No matter who they are. Let's keep this surprise factor alive for a while longer—we need to meet the tribbies on our own.

**I'll reply with what to do with your designs from there.**

Any potential sponsor on FanFiction can submit a stylist.

Mentors _can_ submit stylists, and _can_ submit them for their own District.

Anyone who submits a stylist and designs will earn 4 sponsor points.

**DO NOT review with your stylist template filled out. BAD things will happen.**

I reserve the right to get bored of waiting for stylist admissions, and to create designs for any unclaimed districts.

**Please remember that your stylist will not be a big character—chances are, their name, style, and personality won't even be mentioned. It's their designs I need—and to get a better sense of how the designs're like, _I _****need to know the stylist.**


	2. Train Ride

**For you.**

**

* * *

**

I sighed, leaning back heavily onto the heaps on pillows that topped my frothy bed. Capitol pillows. Shiny silver Capitol bedspread. Custom stitched "D3" Capitol pajamas, folded neatly at the foot. Capitol lanterns, swaying gently to the movement of this Capitol train. My own Capitol bedroom. My own Capitol bathroom.

Every single insignificant object was a sharp reminder that these aren't just fancy chambers—their sheer perfection branded them with their origins. And consistently told me that I'm just borrowing all this stuff as they send me off to slaughter.

Me. Charles Hunter. A tribute.

I'd thought I would be able to get through all my Reapings like most kids did. That Reaping day would be just an annoying occasion that you have to dress up for. To play along with our darling Capitol's Games.

I hadn't always been a rebellious type. The Capitol's name used to just be a repeated word in drawling History classes; just about as notable as "North America" and "Latin" and other useless old stuff. Of course I didn't like watching the Games. Nobody did. But most of the time, I didn't connect one and one to blame the Capitol for forcing them upon us. Until Lucy.

Lucy Burrows wasn't my first girlfriend. I'd had other short stands with other girls—but those were just pretty faces and fun flirting. Lucy was different—she wasn't a pretty face; she was glowing emerald eyes. A perfectly centered nose that she hated for being shiny, but I thought was cute. A set of sugary-sweet pink lips that she never slathered color onto. She was silky auburn hair that my fingers always felt at home in; she was narrow shoulders that fit into my arms perfectly; she was gentle hands that mine almost never freed. And she was reaped. She was murdered.

I've never been one for tacky love poems, or mournful songs about a girl I once had. I'm not going to waste my time thinking she's going to come back, or dreaming of what I really think was love. I guess I'm just another guy who's loved and lost. And will never be stupid enough to love again.

The painful months after her Games, the only Games I've ever remembered, were the low point of my existence. The only things I had left of her were the ever-bleeding gash across my eye and the last memory of watching her flesh be burned off her bones by flames that someone in the Gamekeeper's controls could extinguish with the flick of a button.

Days upon weeks of my head and heart lost in some other dark, twisted place… my leg broke sometime in those months. Any memories I have from then are diluted and freakishly contorted, making it impossible to remember exactly how my injury came about. I always rack my brain for memories of great pain… but they _all_ are.

What pulled me out of the gloom was anger. I'd gone through great joy, I'd experienced great pain, and now all I had left was raging, blinding anger. Hatred of the Games for taking away the only thing I really cared about in this lonely District. Hatred of the Gamemakers for consenting with her death. Stinging loathing of the Peacekeepers who split my face open with a knife I'd made the week before. But the Games, the Gamemakers, the Peacekeepers, even the idiot escort who had the wit to choose Lucy's name out of thousands—all had one common origin.

And I'm heading there now. In the same train that stole Lucy from me last year.

My stomach groaned in protest to the rich Capitol food I'd stuffed it with. The swaying of the train didn't help either—it felt strange to be on such a fast-moving vehicle, and hardly feel the movement. I would be more comfortable air-pressed to the wall at the back of my room, with the enormous wind tearing at my face and my stomach left in 3. Because that's how it really is. Me speeding toward my death. These are just props.

Ignoring the pajamas and shower, I slithered down to lay ontop of all the covers. It was comfortable enough—the mattress was the softest I'd ever felt, the pillows squashing down into one another. I dreaded closing my eyes, for childish fear of the nightmares that lurked in the back of my head. So I did what I usually do when can't sleep; only closed my left eye.

Instantly my bedroom's lines were blurred, its colors fogged into a shade more bleached. I'd never understood why, but bright green was the only color that stayed the same in my right vision—a lime book jumped out at me from the hickory bookshelf. My vision issues used to make me jumpy and high-strung, in the early months. I would glance over my right shoulder at least three times every ten seconds, head swinging back and forth, back and forth, to try and see everything at once. This had become exhausting, and I slowly accepted the fact that I couldn't see my right side very well. I learned how to discifer the blobs in my right vision, how to try and make sense of what I was looking at. It was a sort of relaxing process for me; a good way to unwind and let my brain tick away on its own for a while.

That shimmery rectangle must be the door to the Capitol bathroom. The blob on the ground is the Capitol rug. The glowing orbs that just float in the air are the Capitol lanterns. One by one, I took the disjointed blurs and assigned them names, eventually luring myself into an uneasy sleep.

_Crack. Crack. _Pause._ Crack-crack._

I was off my bed and eyeing the door with a pounding chest before I registered I was awake. My head spun franticly from the sudden movement, both eyes popping with dizzyingly different results.

"Charlie? Charlie—it's time to get up! Don't want to miss breakfast, _do_ we—we're _arriving_ at the Captiol in five hours! _Up, up, up_!"

How could she be so chipper? It's—I glanced at the clock on my bedside stand—eight o'clock. Hm. I'd actually slept in.

Rolling my shoulders to a few satisfying cracks, I headed to the door with mussed hair and crumpled clothes. Our Capitol escort would hate it. So of course I didn't change.

The steady _thump-thumpa-thump_ of my familiar footsteps stirred me back to the world of the living. The nightmares of last night shied away from the morning sunlight that lit the dining room, receding to the dark place where they stayed all day.

Reg Knut, our mentor, was already seated at the pristine table. "Good morning," he said calmly. Calm. That was the best way to describe this guy. He was soft-spoken, brainy, and _calm_. But not friendly. The few times he'd spoken to Ida Topia and I, he treated us like business partners. People that he respected, and has to work with because it's his job. Not friends.

We were supposed to have two mentors, but Nancy Greg, our only other victor, had died last month of old age. A few of the girls at school had cried over it—the ones who'd gotten to know her in her older years, the ones she used to tell thrilling stories of the Games to—but it was just an inconvenience to me. Because, obviously, two mentors are better than one.

At that moment, Ida came sprawling into the room, her twiggy legs shaking and her face red and puffy from a night of sobbing.

"Good morning," Reg greeted her in the exact tone he had me. He took no notice of her obvious unease, her knocking knees and gasping breaths. She fell into one of the two open chairs, mumbling something that sounded like 'mrning'.

Our escort quickly followed her, sliding soundlessly into the open seat at my left. I pointed scooted in the opposite direction.

"Our food shall be _just_ in—oh, _here_ we are. Don't stuff your faces like you _did_ last night. It _was_ disgusting." Her high, pitchy Capitol voice plucked every one of my nerves, but before I could do anything stupid, three waiters swept into the room with huge platters of every breakfast delight I could've ever imagined—and more that I couldn't have.

Ida's eyes swelled to the size of tennis balls as she stared at the food.

"You can eat. Slowly, remember, or you'll just loose it all." Reg helped himself to small portions of each fancy dish.

Ida hardly even used her plate—food went straight from the platters to her mouth. She moaned in delight after her first three mouthfuls.

"I'm not one for small talk," Reg admitted serenely after a while of eating in silence. "So let's just cut to the point—before we arrive at the Capitol, in," he glanced at the old watch on his wrist, "four hours, I'd like to get a good idea of what I'm working with here. Your personalities, your strengths, your weaknesses. But first I must ask if you'd rather be trained together or separately?"

"Separately," I said at the same time Ida squeaked, "Together."

I shot her an icy glare, and she shrunk a little in her chair. "Separately is fine."

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

"Hm. I won't lie and say I'm not impressed." Reg nodded thoughtfully as he laid his cloth napkin back on the lunch table and settled into his chair. "You have talent. How you managed to get it, I haven't a clue."

"My father builds Peacekeeper weapons," I said in an emotionless monotone. "I help."

"I see."

We sat in silence for a moment as I chased the remains of my Capitol food around my platter. My fingers ached from the hours of work I'd put them though—but it was a pleasant feeling, a familiar soreness that I only achieved after the longest days at home.

Darkness swept over the train car as suddenly as if somebody had flicked a switch and turned off the sun. The few lighting fixtures quickly flitted to life, casting ominous shadows across Reg's angular face. Seeing my expression of panic, he gave the tiniest smile of amusement. "The tunnel, Charles. Under the mountains. Don't they teach you anything in school?" It was a joke, but it still made me feel stupid. The mountains, that used to be called the Rockies hundreds of years ago, I remembered from History, where the Capitol's greatest advantage—the huge things separated them from the rest of the Districts. The only ways into the Capitol were over the ginormous rocks, or through the highly guarded tunnels. One of the Rebel's biggest issues, during the Rebellion.

My lungs gasped for air, even though the inside of the train car was exactly as it had been the whole ride. I felt suffocated and oddly cut-off… back into darkness that I didn't have the power to escape…

As quickly as the tunnel had began, it ended. Brilliant light burst through the windows in rectangular pillars, illuminating the whole car with bright, clean luminosity.

A blur of bright, almost unreal colors began sweeping past, gradually growing more distinguishable as the train slowed. The tallest buildings I've ever seen towered over us; the streets were paved in candy-colored bricks; the shingles of the smaller buildings all neon colors that hurt my eyes to look directly at. And the people—weren't like people at all. They were like haunting, color-infused animals that walked like us and laughed like us, but were yet entirely different. The Capitol-ites would stop in their tracks, or nudge their friends, brightly indicating the train and staring with delight. I was willing to bet that every other tribute on the train had their face pressed to the window, staring out at a world that the cameras really hadn't expressed.

Lies. All of this ridiculously cheery, well-fed city with their blinding colors and ridiculous clothes was just a cover-up for the real Capitol—the one that delights in killing kids. The one who doesn't mind letting us Districts starve. The ones who pay us next to nothing for the longest houred days we could possibly manage without keeling over of exhaustion. The ones who took Lucy.

I made a point of glowering at the city with as much hatred and blame I could manage to stick to my expression. If there were cameras on me, all the better. A delighted, amazed tribute who is blown away by such an impressive city looks like a happy, content tribute. A pissed-off, imposing tribute who looks at the city like he would look at trash is an obviously unhappy tribute. Who's saying _I don't enjoy this. This city is crap. This is all _wrong_._

The train's speed slowed to a crawl, such a pace that the Capitol people below me could jog along with it, smiling and waving their arms as if welcoming home a town hero. It was disgusting. I drew back from the window, hiding my face once more in the shadows, and glanced to Reg for one last confirmation.

"Remember what we talked about. For your stylist. For your interview. For the arena. I've only got your back for a ways, Hunter. It's all you from there."

I nodded as the vehicle finally slid to a complete stop in the bursting station. It was like a sea of contorted, mix-matched bright colors out my window—I took a deep breath, sliding my eyelids shut. The sound of the door sliding open. Excited screams washing over my face.

I opened both eyes.

* * *

**Welcome to the Capitol, everyone. Enjoy your stay.**  
**Topsy  
****I'm no longer accepting stylists or designs. The remaining Districts will be designed by some of the elite stylists on my team.

**_Sponsor Points, as of September 5th:_**

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_These are the points as I've tallied them, and you must remember that I control this world. I only credited reviews that mentioned the writing and/or the way the characters were portrayed, and each mentor receives 5 points just for submitting their tribute._  
_Please do not PM me with complaints about how many points you or others have-I hate complainers, and I control your tributes lives... and deaths. What I say goes. The end._


	3. Preparation

**I am, hands down, the world's worst mathematician. Words are my friends. Numbers are... not.**  
**Enjoy.  
****Topsy**

* * *

It was like one of those fancy doctors rooms in the tiny clinic in 6.

Perfectly sterile counters lined the simplistic white walls, with steely metal cupboards above them, each with a padlock that required a 5-digit code.

50 different combinations for each lock, I mused, and I was guessing each one had a different combination. Which means that after you guess the first combination, it rules out a whole combination for the next, getting easier to guess as you go along. On the way up here from the train, I'd noticed from door numbers, tribute numbers, even the car numbers on the train, that Capitol people really seem to prefer odd numbers to evens-perhaps for their overall more playfulness and less requirements? Which means that the first lock only really has 25 combinations. And I don't know about the Capitol locks, but the locks around 6 usually give you ten tries before it becomes unresponsive. Assuming these are the same style (and they did look to have the same structure and dials), you have a 40% chance of figuring out the first lock, about... I paused to calculate... 42% chance of cracking the second one, 44% chance of cracking the third one, 46% chance the fourth, 48% the fourth, 50% the fifth, 52% chance the sixth, and so on until you have a 60% chance of cracking the tenth cabinet's code-probably more, because by then you would have picked up on tendencies of the codemaker and common patterns. I estimated that in reality, assuming that you chose the logical path to start with the cabinet on the far left and work your way right, you would have more of a 72% chance of—

"Analyse?"

My head was suddenly snapped out of the numbers, sending them scrambling for sensible places to be. "Uh-yes?" I called back tentatively to the Capitol voice in the hallway.

The thick steel door cracked open, and a colorfully painted face peeked in.

"There you _are_!" the Capitol woman said in a bout of relief. She threw open the door completely with a radiant grin of-I took a second disbelieving look-_silver _teeth, letting in two other Capitol women behind her. All three were oddly feline-like in their movements, their body paint and scraps of silver clothes identical. Their only differences were the lengths of the unnaturally straight sheet of metallic silver hair. The first woman, who was now babbling something to me about how they'd heard I was waiting in room 375, but here I was in 559, had a completely shaved head. The one who stood off to the left possessed a chin-length sheet, and the one to the right had fantastical locks that hung straight down to her waist. She flipped them in front and behind her shoulders every few minutes.

All three had spirals and arching swirls painted onto their mostly-exposed skin, in cool colors of purple, green and blue. Their silver accents put off the color combination nicely, I noted blandly as the first woman, whose name was apparently Plancha, babbled on.

"Anyway, we eventually—after running around practically the whole Remake Center—found you here—"

"—sitting patiently, all alone, you poor girl—"

"—and without even asking permission, we just came in!"

They completed each other's sentences with eerie accuracy. I just nodded vaguely, a distant smile glued to my face. _Be kind to your prep team_, my mentor had instructed in an off-hand way, _and they won't do anything permanent to you_. Which had explained how she'd gotten the large owl tattoo on her arm…

"Alright," the one to the left who introduced herself as Planchi finally said with a sigh. The three circled where I sat on the plush salon chair, eyeing me up and down with unnaturally silver eyes as my insides squirmed. Did they have to prod me like that? I don't really like people watching me to start with, but staring at me with judgmental expressions… I felt jumpy and uneasy.

"You're not _entirely_ hopeless. I mean, just look _at_ this hair! Have you ever _seen_ anything like it, Plancho?"

The woman with the longest hair sifted her careful, claw-like fingers through my auburn-y locks.

"No," she said, staring at the stuff as a starving child might look at gold. "It's _wonderful_…"

"Plancho's in charge of assembling your hair styles," Plancha explained to me. And—"

"Plancha works with Serena and your costume," Planchi said airily.

"And Planchi is the biggest help in getting you from _this_," Plancho gestured vaguely at me, "to a canvas Serena might _possibly_ be able to work with."

"Of course, we're _all_ your prep team. We all help prep!"

They laughed together, the high, tweeting noises almost identical.

"We don't have much time to waste, do we now?"

"Disrobe, please!"

_Disrobe?_ As in, take off my clothes? If I'd felt squeamish before, it was nothing to the nausea that built up in my gut as I slowly unbuttoned my shirt. The Planch's (as I'd begun to refer to them in my head) just watched, half-interested, as my clothes dropped to the floor one by one.

It was awful. Never had I liked having to stand up in front of a crowd fully clothed. But _naked_, in front of three people I didn't even know—

My cheeks are going to be permanently pink after this, I thought wryly. But for my prep team, it was just another day, another naked teen, and they wasted no time getting to work.

There's really only one thing I can do that sheds the weight of other's prying eyes; running. In this sort of small, enclosed space, I lent all the energy that used to channel to panic to my head, letting it wheel off and analyze whatever there was to analyze. My father once told me that I have the most beautiful name in 6- Analyse. Switch out one letter and you get _analyze_, one of the most important words in the minds of the always-thinking 6 citizens. And analyze I did, as the Planch's swirled around me with their Capitol-ized words and chirping laughs. Their hands poked and prodded, smoothed and stroked, striped and cleaned. Sometimes sudden pain would rip up from a certain arena of skin, but I stayed safely locked away in my thoughts.

Turns out the cabinet furthest to the right held the most valuable styling tools—electronic contraptions that were obviously exclusive to the Capitol. I'm no District 3, but from examining each Capitol tool from that cabinet, I'd guess the total value of its contents to be around $50,000. Not a bad chunk of change, for someone who wanted it. With a 72% chance of getting into the cabinet itself, without factoring in any of the guard systems outside or on the way up, a talented thief could probably get their hands on the equipment somewhat easily.

Not that I'm planning to—I've never needed any more money than I have. My parents always could provide three meals a day, a warm house to come home to, and a bed to sleep in. What more could I need?

I smiled internally to myself as I thought of Adaleigh, my 15-year-old little sister, making the same argument. Except, arguing for the exact opposite. She wasn't an unreasonable girl, but was always on the lookout for ways to earn a little extra cash… maybe for that new scarf everyone had, or a new pair of shoes, even though she already had two. She was certainly clever, but differed from me drastically in the way that she could explain her way out of anything. Words were her tools, and she could bend them as easily as I can bend any riddle or question. I guess I've always been a tad jealous of her for that—words didn't do me _squat_ usually.

If you asked any of my classmates what they thought of me, they'd probably say, "Oh Analyse? She's nice, I guess." With maybe a tacked on, "I don't really know."

Because few people actually do. I've never seen the pure necessity of talking to others about trivial things that don't do anyone good. Like gossip about who's dating who's girlfriend, or listless comments on the weather or classes or something that I obviously can already see without their pointing it out. It's discerning. Offensive, almost—doubting someone's intelligence is pretty much the worst insult in 6. A compliment would be a thoughtful comment on a presentation you just did, or raising a question about your opinions of the current scientific state, and how you think it will change by the time we're in lab coats. The skinny, air-headed ditzes who walk around the halls all day trailed by their adoring posse of idiots will never make it anywhere in 6. Brains are the key to success, our parents drill to us. If you don't have them, you're useless.

I've never actually seen a duck. A real duck, I mean. And it's sort of been my childish wish to meet one and see if their quacks really don't echo. It goes against everything we've learned in class—and if a duck's brilliant enough to defy facts, I'd truly like to meet one. The closest I've ever come is my little brother's duck pin, playfully nicknamed Noco (our child babber for 'no echo'). When I was ten and he was only five, we started a sort of riddle game (very popular in 6). To test his young problem-solving, I would hide Noco in obscure places around the house, giving him only one hint as to its location. The hint was always connected to the hiding place in a very round-a-bout way that really made you think about what location the hint could possibly be connected to.

Needless to say, people didn't exactly flock to become my friend. I only have two, really. Just Jenna and Jake. Jenna is my neighbor—I was her first friend when she moved from across the District. And she's not a bad person to hang around; sweet, funny, always optimistic and willing to laugh for hours at the jokes I spontaneously create just for her sense of humor. And Jake… Jake and I had met in a candle store, actually. Now that I look back on it, it was sort of a weird way to start a friendship. He was 14, tall, and smart-eyed, and I was 13, flat as a board and about as sexy as a signpost. I'd been looking for a nice candle for my mother's birthday, knowing how much she loved it when our small house was filled with flame scent, and he had apparently been browsing, too. We stood, looking at the same small shelf for a few moments before I plucked off a Pine scented one and brought it under my nose.

"You won't want that."

I nearly jumped out of my skin—not only were I not at all one for making pleasant conversations on the spot, but he had this confident air about him that bugged me to no end for a reason I couldn't quite put my finger on at the time. I now realize it was admiration.

"And why not?" I'd managed to squeak, straitening my shoulders. Who was he to tell me what not to buy?

"Because it has glacteam in it. Your brother's allergic."

"How—fine." I've never liked having to ask _how_ about anything, and never will. "Is this acceptable?" My fingers randomly plucked a purple cylinder off the shelf.

"No," he said matter-of-factly. "It's too strong. It will stick to your hair like most scents do, judging its overall healthy sheen." He eyed me, playfulness and knowledge dancing behind his gaze.

"Alright, Mr. Candle Expert, which one am I about to pick next?" I slid the purple on back into place. He cocked his head slightly, inhaling.

"Sweet plum. Then, after you find that to be sickly, cinnamon. Your final choice will be…" He leaned slightly closer to the top of my head, taking a deep breath. "Magnolia. It's the pink one on the far left. A light scent that clears your lungs and head, making it easier to _think_." Playfulness overtook his expression now. "I'm Jake. Jake Herring. My father—"

"Owns the shop. I know. There's no way you could have such a smart nose otherwise. I'm Analyse—"

"Fellows. Your brother is in my brother's class, he's told me all about him."

I struggled to keep a straight face. "Great."

"Great."

"Have a nice day."

"You too."

"Alright."

"Alright."

"You can walk away now."

He did, but stopped in the doorway and called, "I live just around the corner from your street, if you ever wanted to compare candle notes."

"She's not much of a talker, is she?"

"No… hasn't said a word all prep. Probably too nervous, the poor dear."

"That's fine. She doesn't need to talk—she just needs to let me dress her."

A new voice was being passed around with my prep team's. She had a Capitol accent, too, but her words were silkier and slightly lower than the chirps of the Planch's.

"Analyse, dear?" Plancha's face was suddenly filling my vision. "You're done. Prepping, I mean. This is Serena, your stylist."

My head swam as Planchi helped me into an upright position; all the recalled memories filing swiftly back into their storage. Plancha stood smugly off to one side, Plancho twisting her hair eagerly to the other. And posed with her hips jutted oddly out to one side, fingers pressed artistically to her broad pink lips, was who I assumed was Serena.

The first trait that jumped to my mind was _beautiful_—her smooth face had high cheekbones stretched over with the kind of ivory skin more vain girls would kill for. I could see who had inspired my prep team to get ridiculously straight sheets of hair—Serena's was platinum blond, almost painful to the eyes in the styling room's harsh light.

And the second trait was _naked_—my stylist had scraps of carefully placed metallic gold fabric that made the Planch's look like nuns. Maybe her gently arching, slender torso and endlessly long legs looked especially bare because they were somewhat normal, not creature-like or painted. She didn't need the super-Capitol styles to make her pop.

She must have noticed me staring because she snapped, "Oh, don't look at me like that. I do too have clothes on. Just because you think being dressed is wearing fabric on every inch of your body, doesn't mean I feel the same way. Besides, it's quality that counts. Not quantity."

I shrunk back a little from her words, dread making itself at home at the pit of my stomach. So I would be _this_ kind of tribute. The one that everyone sees in the parade and thinks, _Oh, that poor girl. She'll _never_ get sponsors_.

Having gotten her main point out of the way, Serena softened a little. "Would you like to see the sketches, or be surprised?"

It took me a moment to understand what she meant. "Surprise me," I said after clearing my throat, which had become tight of disuse.

"Off with the robe, then!"

I felt especially inadequate, standing in all my naked glory, in the presence of someone who would put swimsuit models to shame. I was about ready to puke of anxiety, when, to top off my worries, Serena comes at my with a satin blindfold. I immediately shot up a hand of protection, making her pause in annoyance.

"Do you want to be surprised or not?"

Not, I thought. I don't deal well with surprises. But a few hours in the small, safe world behind the blindfold actually sounded pretty good. So I let my hand drop feebly to my side again as Planchi tied the darkness over my gaze.

"Get me the scissors, Plancho. No, the two-inchers.

The green would look better with that hair… down, you idiot, let it down! Scissors, Plancho. Shorter. Shorter. Shorter. Ouch—that was my hand. Turn for me, Analyse, darling. Sketches, Planchi. See that? Shorter. The green with the silver. That's grey, I want silver. Shit that's too short. Do you have a needle? We can work with this… gold thread, I think. Let it be, Plancho. Down. This is what she calls a bra? Two sizes up. That'll be fine. The hem is too… wrong, wrong, wrong, tear it off. _Tear_, Plancha, don't cut. A little to your left, darling. For God's sake, Plancho, stop touching her hair! That's excellent, Planchi—love the silver. Does this wire look too wire-y? Too much fabric back here, Plancha. At least three darts on the back—no, let's just take the back off. And the front. Leave the sides! Take another three inches or so off the hem. Planchi, a lighter hand with that eyeshadow. Heavier with the lip. Are her ears pierced? No? This may hurt a tad, darling—does it always make that much blood?"

What must have been hours of their meaningless babble flooded my head as I let my own thoughts flit and fly as they may. Jake probably won't make the rugby team, I decided. I wish I had warned him before I left—but he's smart, he probably has figured it out. And I'm going to miss Austin's first day of sixth grade. I wonder if I could write my family from here? They would love to hear about the Capitol. How colorful and cheerful everything here is. Even the people, with their odd styles and textures. I could write to Adaleigh to tell her about my train ride, and maybe about Raymond Heartly, my fellow tribute, because I knew she sort of liked him. I wondered how her fascination could possibly be captured by such a boring person—he'd sat in the shadows and sulked every time I saw him on the train—but then again, I don't think I'll ever understand the inner workings of my sister's mind.

I took a brief mental headshake, sifting out only the thoughts of utmost importance. I'm headed to the arena. I need to outsmart all of my opponents—including the usually clever tributes of 3 and 5. My mentor had discussed strategy over and over again with me—but I don't take directions very well. "Directions" means more like "suggestions" for me. Good suggestions, for the most part, but this is still _my_ Games, and I can go about it how I see fit.

Plans, charts, and ideas swirled together in the usual organized chaos that made up my thoughts. As they slowly became clearer and clearer, I started to realize that I could do this. I could win this thing—sure, I'm not good with weapons (I've never actually seen one before) but how hard could they possibly be to handle, if the Peacekeepers do it daily? If I could only get my hands on something self-explanatory, like a knife or sharp object—

"I. Am. _Brilliant_."

I was once again wrenched from my thoughts.

"Analyse, darling, you're done. And with a half hour to spare!"

I was suddenly excited to see what she had me in—though it was a nervous excitement, the kind you get around a disaster.

"May I present," Serena's voice said grandly from behind me as her fingers worked to untie my blindfold, "the girl from District six!"

I opened my eyes slowly, to find myself face-to-face with another girl who could have been my twin. Except I would never have a twin that looked so—

"_What_ have you _done _to me?"

* * *

**You like Analyse? So do I. This one has potential.  
Next chapter is an exciting one-chariots, anyone?**

**Remember to review regarding the writing or how I've portrayed Analyse. Points could be the difference between a tribute's savior and a tribute's death.  
Topsy **


	4. Chariots

_More uppy updates at bottom ("Newest" in bold)_

_**Our dear Capitol is proud to present... the tributes of the 262nd annual Hunger Games.**_

**

* * *

**

Flashing lights.

_Inhale._

Twirling spotlights.

_Exhale._

Screams.

_Inhale._

Names, passed around the crowd of these awful Capitol-ites like a beach ball.

_Exhale._ Slowly.

"Are you alright?"

I whirled around too quickly-my already keyed-up head spun for a couple seconds, making my vision slightly blurry. And I probably have already given off the impression of being high-strung and nervous. Great.

"Fine," I growled, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my palm. After a second of rubbing, I noticed in irritation that this person was still standing there, watching me. "What do you _want_?" I snapped, letting my annoyance whip out.

"You look nervous. And this is my chariot," he tacked on the last part in a sort of apologetic way. Looking down at the garage's pavement below my feet, I realized that the huge white block numbers did read 11, not 12. Oops.

"That's nice." I hate being wrong. It just rubs me wrong. Especially when someone's all _nice_ about correcting me. So I just stood there, making a point of leaning against his chariot in a show of, _you honestly think you can tell me what to do?_

What bugged me even more was that he didn't seem to be bothered. We stood there, in the midst of all the hustle and bustle of the launch garage; me in my stubborn silence, him nonchalantly tracing some engravings in his golden armband. I eyed his costume, my arm still up to my head in a way that hid my gaze. Hm. Egyptian? What does Egypt have to do with 11? The satin, movement-filled gold cloak that hung off his right shoulder barely brushed the ground as his shoulder flexed, the low-rise white pants seemingly made of the same floating material. I wondered idly how his bare feet got so cut up… before realizing that I didn't care. The armband that he was so fascinated with glinted tiny reflections of the harsh bulbs that lit the garage in its crude engravings. Or people with, like, bird heads? But of course he didn't look up until I was examining his leanly muscled bare chest—with a pack that was certainly something to be reckoned with…

"Enjoying the view?"

My eyes shot to the cement under our feet. _Shit_. "I would be if you weren't in it."

He laughed airily, but his tight nerves were barely concealed by the sound. "'Sokay. It wasn't really my idea, this whole…" he seems lost for words to describe his get-up, and he opts instead for gesturing vaguely up and down his front.

"Not mine, either." I copied his motion mockingly. He took in my coal miner's jumpsuit with considerable interest, before smiling a bit and turning to face me formerly.

"I'm Sparrow Kingston. From Eleven." He offers his hand to me, positioned vertically for a friendly handshake. I just glare at it icily, forcing him to eventually rub his arm with it in a lame attempt to blow off my rejection casually.

"Aislin Lieds. Twelve. From the Seam…" What a stupid thing to say. "… not that that's important…"

"Well, I guess that makes me Sparrow Kingston from the shack at the edge of the field." He chuckled darkly, hinting of a less friendly side to the feather-haired boy.

I went back to methodically rubbing my forehead, trying to tune my attention to the announcements that echoed around the cavernous, warehouse-y launch. Mentors, stylists, prep teams and easily spotted tributes dashed around, trying to find their chariot in the line or making last-minute repairs and adjustments. The noises of the crowd just outside the grey walls turned into muffled white noise that was a constant undertone to the hurry and tense energy in the launch. I was just about to finish my stubborn stance and make my way over to my own chariot—where I could see Darious Flint, the guy from 12, waiting anxiously with our mentors—when this 11 guy suddenly piped up again.

"Not a life of luxury, that's for sure. Neither of us, I mean. You, a bitter, unsocial girl who would really rather I shut up, and me, the guy who has to steal to support his family… what kind of a place does this Capitol run?"

It's no use arguing against his analysis. The Capitol is wrong, and runs an awful ship. "Do laws really even take effect when you'll starve to death otherwise?" I spat the comment with as much bitterness as I could muster, which, not to brag, but was a lot.

It seemed to have sprung this odd boy's interest. His bright blue eyes shot suddenly up to mine, a dark sort of humor stirred in with his anxiety. "They do. Trust me… they do."

"Sounds like personal experience."

He sighed with an attempt at a smile. "Yeah. And lots of it."

"Hm." I gave up on trying to ease my headache, and instead began fingering the hem of one of my smelly old gloves. I swear they get these costumes right off the dead bodies—they certainly reek of death. He seemed to notice my new way to pass the time, because he _didn't stop talking_.

"Coal miners, right?"

I just nodded vaguely, hoping that he'd get angry with me for not leaving his chariot, or at least get annoyed with my attitude. Just as long as he stopped being… _nice_. Ew.

"Do you actually mine, yourself?"

"Oh yeah, they give the kids the really big explosives and send them down there with stale bread and a bottle of coal water."

He laughed. _Laughed_. At my mocking him. Who is this guy?

"Yeah, well… age doesn't really matter in Eleven. Everyone works. They normally start you when you're about nine—you're in Agriculture school before that—and you really only go to school on the weekends."

My interest was caught. I'd never heard anything about any other District—and I guess we'd always assumed that the 11 people are always well fed and healthy. Now that I think about it, that doesn't make any sense at all.

"Really?" I kept my tone bored. "It's the opposite around 12. We go to school all week, and have the weekends off."

"Off? Wow. We get one day a week off. Mine's Thursdays, with the rest of the sixteen-year-olds."

Sixteen? I eyed his long, lean body again. I'd clocked him at 18, 17 at the least.

He didn't seem to be thinking all that much, just saying what came to his mind. There was this sort of freeness to the way he spoke that I'd never heard before—not even of Skye, who was so well liked because of her easy words.

"The ten's, eleven's, and twelve's get Mondays off, the thirteen's and fourteen's get Tuesdays off, the fifteen's get Wednesdays, we get Thursdays, and the seventeen's and eighteen's get Fridays. Adults get either Saturday or Sunday off, 'cause they don't have to go to school."

"Hm." I continued to examine my glove.

He chuckled half-heartedly. "You don't care, do you?"

"Not especially."

"I don't blame you. We're not exactly the most exciting District ever."

We stood without any words hovering between us for a moment. Birdy, of course, quenched the silence.

"Do you have any siblings?"

What's the use of not telling him? It's not going to piss him off, and it's not like he's ever going to 12. "Yeah. A little sister. And a twin."

His fair eyebrows raised. "A twin? Identical or fraternal?"

"Identical." Why should he care? He's headed to his death and all he wants to know is if Skye is identical or fraternal to me? But now that he brought Skye up, I realized that he's the kind of person that Skye would be friends with in an instant. So _that's_ why I don't like him.

"That must be nice. Having someone your age around. I just have the twins, River, and Falcon. Twin girls—also identical. You'd probably understand them better than I do." He smiled at me. I didn't laugh.

"So they're who you're dying for?" I snapped, wanting to find a raw edge to this package.

"No," His voice dropped to a low, serious tone. "They're who I'm winning for."

And I found that edge. Those blue eyes were suddenly icy fire of determination, making me stand a little taller to display how I'm not backing down anytime soon. I have a family that I need to go home to, too. _With_ the Victor's winnings.

But as quickly as the fire had ignited, it died. With a sharp blink and slight headshake, he was back to the totally naïve-looking boy in the golden cloak. The one who Skye would be friends with.

"Sorry," he said airily. "Somehow what I'm thinking always finds it way out my mouth. It makes me brutally honest, but also the world's worst secret-keeper."

Why is he telling me this? Does it look like I care? "That's nice. I'll make sure not to tell you any _secrets_."

"Good. Don't. Nothing's safe with me."

"I could tell by your overpowering demeanor and terrible attitude."

He smiled. Again. Was he always this quick to the motion? But his words were stuck in my head now… _Nothing's safe with me_…

And with that odd last note, I turned on my heel and headed to the 12 chariot in all my jumpsuited glory. The Flint guy was alone now, standing as close to the dusty black chariot as he could without actually touching it. His jumpsuit didn't flatter him any more than it flattered me—in fact, our shapes looked about the same in them, despite my curves and his twiggy-ness. Hands shoved deep into pockets, his gaze was locked on something across the large room from us, mouth slightly agape. There was this glazed look in his eye that immediately dismissed any idea that his scruffy head held anything but dust bunnies. I sighed in exasperation as my gaze followed his to the girl from 1. Of course. So stereotypical—she had lush blond hair that her skinny little hands ran through at least three times every five seconds, the _perfect_ body with everything working for her in the bedazzled white bikini she was decked out in. Seriously, these District 1 people really had to find a better way to display their jewels than all over their girl's boobs.

Not that it wasn't pulling attention from every male in the launch.

"Get your dignity off the floor before someone steps on it," I mutter to Darious as I pass. He shakes out of his daze with a start—apparently the idiot hadn't thought anybody would notice his staring.

"Mentors and stylists, please prepare your chariots for launch." The slightly tinny voice boomed around us in a much higher volume than the other announcements had been made in. A silence swept over us, and suddenly everyone was bursting into action again. Our mentors eventually found our chariot again, and passed along a few reminders of how to stand and smile. _Confidence is everything_, they drilled. _Stand tall, and your head will pop out of the pack_.

I thought that was a bit of an odd expression—it made it sound like another tribute had already decapitated us—but I didn't get a chance to voice this because the last call for silence was banging in our ears. All the voices in the launch fell quiet, letting the crowd noise seep into the air. And the huge lights that were suspended from the ceiling shut off, leaving us only with the swirling colors and spotlights of the crowd outside.

Go time.

I waited in anticipation; drumming my fingers on the rim of the chariot and examining our black horse's intricately braided manes. It didn't take long for District 1 to be signaled out; the crowd swelled in welcome to a favorite district. I catch a glimpse of the incredibly perfect girl with a white bedazzled bikini, next to an unusually slim boy with a sort of sparkly cape. Huh. Careers were usually huge and imposing; this guy had a softer, more feminine look to him.

The District 2 cart swiftly followed—the chariot itself covered in vintage firearms, the horses a foggy roan, the girl who looked like she had a hobby of boiling small animals, and the huge boy with rippling biceps that the crowd seemed to love. They were both something to avoid in the arena, I decided.

District 3 is in charge of non-military electronics, and apparently the only way to express that is to dress its tributes in electronic scraps. The skinny girl had a dress that was made from electrical plugs, with uncomfortable-looking wire flats and necklaces. But the boy caught a bit more of my attention—I'd noticed him when we replayed the Reapings on the train, but his stylist had hugely played up his scar so that I could clearly see it from here. That paired with the outfit made entirely out of twisted copper wire sent the slightest shiver down my spine. I'd keep an eye on him, too.

4's chariot comforted me about my jumpsuit somewhat. I mean, at least I wasn't in a huge _shrimp_ costume. If it weren't for the fact that they were Careers, I would have written them off as complete losers. Because if you looked closer, at the girl's long, muscled legs that stuck out of the shrimp, and the guy's well-built arms and thick neck—you could tell that they didn't sit around and eat shrimp all day. I smirked as their costumes kicked into full affect; tiny lights that were scattered all over the shrimp's surface blinked madly. I half-expected them to begin singing and jumping around their chariot with flailing arms. My stylist wasn't all that bad, actually. The jumpsuit is definitely okay.

District 5 is not known for being remarkable in looks—they're one of the Brains (3, 5, and 6). But this year, they were actually worth ten seconds of my time. The fact that the tributes themselves were scrawny and would probably pass out if they tried to run half a mile was hidden by the paint they were covered in. It was as if someone had spray-painted them pure white, them went in and written black, curvy numbers on every surface of their skin that wasn't covered by their matching black tank top and shorts. Their faces were covered in the endless digits, giving them the sort of impression that their thoughts were on their outsides…

As 6's chariot pulled out, my own cart shifted slightly. I glanced over in irritation at Darious, who was craning his neck to get a better view of this chariot in particular. I didn't see why; 6 is another Brain. Watch out for their plans and be sure they have a strategy, but if you can catch them, they're dead. But then the precious spotlight swiveled to train itself on the 6 chariot, and I could see why the crowd's noise had grown to an even huger roar.

Science. It's just science. Not militia, or clothing, or luxury items… just a bunch of geeks in lab coats. I've failed science every year I've taken it. But what the 6 stylist done do her tributes makes it look… cool. The chariot was a steely silver, with the same sort of digits the 5's had, but more green-ish and techno. What I assumed was dry ice (though I've only ever encountered the stuff once) floated up in a mysterious fog around the tribute's feet and legs, thinning around their torsos and heads as to not block their outfits from view. And they appeared to be designed as a matching pair; the guy, in his beat-up white lab coat, highly mussed hair, dark eye makeup, and sort of perv-y smirk was obviously playing the scientist; the girl, in a bubble mini skirt that was only attached to the strapless top by the sides, with foggy makeup that made her look a lot more sexy than I'm guessing she actually is, seemed to be the experiment. The guy was having the time of his life, interacting with her in all sorts of dramatic ways, but underneath all the makeup, the poor girl was almost shivering slightly.

Clever. Those two will be getting sponsors tonight.

I elbowed Darious, hard, in the ribs to get him to stop stretching on his tiptoes to see the 6's retreat. Idiot.

Halfway to us. Alright. I can do this. Just do what they told us to. But it's much easier to watch the other tributes than to think about yourself out there.

A warm summer breeze welcomed the 8's (District 7 was unremarkable, as always) out into the square. Their whole chariot seemed to be made of… clothing scraps. The marbled black chariot and silver-streaked manes of the dark horses was something that everyone had seen before, but perhaps not exactly like this. The girl, whoever she was, was wearing a light pink patchwork of materials of all textures and sizes, with some areas left simply torn-off, and gaping holes showing up here and there. I've learned that 8 people aren't especially known for being dressed well themselves, but the look oddly flattered this older girl's curves. In fact, the guy paled in comparison, despite his being six or seven inches taller than her. His shirt was obviously made to match hers; it was the same style, with the only difference being that it was made of light blue pieces. Paired with his white pants, he reminded me of those expensive cards that you can buy for your friend when she has a baby boy. Needless to say, the look didn't really work for him.

District 9's chariot wasn't especially interesting—though the girl had a sort of look on her face that made me make a mental note of avoiding her. Like she wanted someone's blood, and was going to stop at nothing to get it. As long as it's not coal dusty blood that she wants, doesn't matter to me.

The Capitol Assists were motioning us forward, to get closer to the exit. I blandly noticed that our horse's nervous steps only made a dull _thump thump_ on the concrete, instead of the sharp _clacks_ I was more familiar with. Wonder what they put on their hooves…

From here we had a clear view of the backs of the three chariots in front of us, and the crowd beyond. I liked this feeling of we-can-see-them-but-they-can't-see-us, as we were still concealed under the shadow of the huge launch. The sights didn't do much to comfort my strange excitement; it heightened the crowd's noise and odd, colorful lights. Four huge floodlights gave the square enough light to see us, with the precious one spotlight currently highlighting the 6's again.

I almost missed the 10's before they disappeared around the corner into the center of the square: the only bits that I really caught were that the boy was most definitely a 12-year-old, and the only one I'd seen so far, and the girl stood as far away from him as the small chariot would allow. Odd.

I trained my slightly nervous gaze on the backs of the 11's right in front of us. And just as they were being signaled out, the guy—Sparton? Swallow?—turned around to give me a tiny thumbs-up. A thumbs-up? For what? You don't _thumbs-up_ someone you're planning to kill. And I think that was the moment I decided that, if he was still alive by the time I got to him in the arena, I was going to kill this feather-haired, thoughtful-eyed boy.

So of course I give him the thumbs-up back.

Their chariot pulled out of the launch, and it took the crowd a few seconds to nudge their buddies and point before the 11's were the new favorite. My own nerves were tightened by the proximity our chariot was to the exit now, but I vaguely noticed that their golden cloaks blew out behind them in such a way that caught the light and tricked the eye into thinking it was watching grain, blowing in the breeze… The girl held up a handful of assorted wheat, to the crowd's great pleasure. The Egyptian drawings that lined the outside of their chariot looked rather authentic under the strange moving lights, but the guy's smile seemed even more so. _What's going on in that head?_ No. Wait. I don't care.

I don't care that our jumpsuits are going to be totally snuffed, giving the crowd more time to admire the 11's. I don't care that we aren't going to get any sponsors with this ridiculous chariot. And I especially don't care that this Sparrow guy is shamelessly giving me a supporting smile as—

Suddenly, we were being signaled forward. Darious was paling fast. _Confidence_, I tried to remember. _Something about my head popping. Confidence._

And we rolled out into the light.

* * *

**A few A/N:**

I know that was a bit shorter than you might have expected, but Aislin's mind doesn't duel like Analyse's does. She lives in the moment.. and these moments pass quickly.  
Thanks to everyone who submitted a design for the chariots. We have Writting2StayHalfSane to thank for 8's wonderful disco cowboy chariot, Akai-Pyon for Sparrow's golden get-up, and Claratrix LeChatham for sticking the 4's in giant shrimp. And I admit to making a mistake: I _think_ it was Twirlgirl821 who submitted designs for the 12's, but the PM has completely disappeared. So sorry to whoever submitted the 12's stylist and designs, but my computer is out to get us all.

**Sponsor Points:**_ my laptop hates me, and my tally of the points has been mussed once or twice. I don't want to post untrue counts, so I'll have to update with the real numbers after I re-tally everything. All I know for sure is that Twirlgirl821 has the most points, and Song of the Moon and Lightninllamas currently have the least._

**NEWEST: I need help! My much-loved, floppy-spined Hunger Games copy is on a temporary loan to a friend (finally getting him to read it-gotta do my duty and spread the HG love). And I absolutely can't remember if the Training Center comes before the interviews, or visa versa? If anyone could review or PM me with which one comes first, I would be extremely grateful! Might even throw some sponsor points at you! I just need to know, and quickly... the faster I can figure this out, the faster I can start writing up the next chappie. Thanks!**

**By the by, voting for the next focused character is closed. Arrett vs. Neveah no more... I'm starting to love them both... but one has been selected for the next chapter.**

Also, I'd like to let everyone know that I won't be able to spoil you with daily updates anymore. Why? Because this annoying thing called school has started again. If I had it my way, I would let high school die in a hole and write all day... but I _do_ need an education. Just a heads-up that updates will be coming _slower_.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	5. Training Center

**Ah, a Career head. After hours of contemplation and careful first-person writing, you would think I would have his mind a bit more figured out. But no. I don't think I'll ever quite understand this one.**

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"Your rooms are down the hall. Callista's on the left, Neveah on the right. Don't break anything. Actually, don't touch anything unless you're using it. Only use the right-hand panel in the shower if you value your life. Sleep well—tell an Avox if you need sleep pills. Early call tomorrow." Larkson stopped for a moment in his stiff, tight-shouldered stance. "That's all."

I hardly glanced to Dina for confirmation—all she ever did was walk around with her hips going everywhere and the bottom of her nose so vertical, I wondered how she could possibly see where she's going—before sliding off to my rooms. The murals that decorated the sleek walls of the hallway twisted my gut in a similar way to how I felt when I stepped back on the dock after being at sea for months at a time. The paint depicted the sea—or what the Capitol artists must think of the sea. The water line was above my head, and I found myself surrounded by crudely inaccurate sea life, with huge, smiling faces and scales the size of dinner plates. Something bright green and oddly wavy was painted sprouting along the baseboards—is that what they think sea plants look like? I'd certainly had enough time seeing them, having to yank them out of the hand-tied knots of our nets. Nasty little things.

I grit my teeth as I passed the 'art' in my own display of disapproval. To top it off, the door to my room had a shark with the broadest smile of all, slapped onto a face in total disproportion to its body. Of course.

It only took one glance into the blue-slathered bathroom to decide that my long days on the boat, covered in salt and whatever happens to be on the relentless wind that day, without bathing, would come into practice here. My mentor had advised to stick to the right panel of the endless controls in the shower. I was going to stick away from the whole situation. The tip of my tongue slid over my upper lip for the umpteenth time as I eyed the neatly folded pajamas on my dresser. They were striped in shades of blue, again, with fancy but itchy-looking embroidery of vague wave shapes and sea stars. Funny concept, pajamas were—a whole outfit designed just to lie around in. I'd never actually owned a pair, myself, seeing as they wouldn't very well fit in my tiny burlap over-the-shoulder bag I was allowed to bring aboard, and also their uselessness. Leaving the peculiar things to their neat creases and shiny sleeves, I peeled off the black shirt I'd been wearing under the thing Arc'd put me in for the Opening Ceremonies and flopped heavily down on top of the fancy bed. My tongue skidded over my lid again before I realized that my ceiling was actually a worthwhile piece of art. The colors had been mixed and faded in such ways that it appeared to be the surface of the water—viewed from beneath it. The realism was such that my lungs felt odd taking in the air… that I should be drowning…

Call me foolish, but it's my worst fear. Drowning. Mostly because, before these Games, it was my most probable death, considering all the time I spend atop the roaring waves. With tiny amounts of food that I have to splint among my brother, my sister, and me, and ration to last as long as the trip's supposed to be. Though we don't normally get back to the dock until a day or so after we're supposed to be back—it's a universally understood fact around 4 that you can't give the ocean a schedule to follow. Being in such a fancy room, having had my second experience in an elevator, and having eaten the best food of my life, I almost missed the cracking wind toughening the skin on my face. The ground seemed so strange and even. Not everything in every room was tacked down. This isn't my world, even though the Capitol has obviously designed my room to look like the cabin of a ship. There wouldn't be this much space, or such useless things as the huge rug that covered the wooden floorboards and the cushioned couches tucked up against the oak-paneled walls. It would just be stupid.

But now I needed sleep, like Larkson said. Callista's probably already a half hour gone, into the world of sleep—that makes her a half hour more rested than I am already. Sleep. Sleep.

And I can almost imagine my bed swaying softly with the currents that rush below me.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

My stomach was left somewhere on the fourth floor as the elevator shot down. The crystal walls showed the ground leaping at us at alarming rates, and then we were suddenly engulfed by darkness. Occasional lights flew by, shedding light inside the tiny room for a half-second at a time. A flash of Dina's upturned nose. A fleeting look at the stony expression of Larkson. A brief glance of Callista's serious stare. And then my stomach crashed back into my body as the elevator slid to a halting stop at the end of a brightly lit hall.

The doors slid open on silent tracks, and Larkson led the way to the opening at the hall. He'd told me it would be huge—he warned me of its size and drilled that the presence of the other tributes shouldn't set me off. Act casual. I do this every day. Walking into a gymnasium the size of the town square is totally normal for me. Going face-to-face with the kids I'll be killing isn't an issue. It's all _good_.

Not only did the size of the place surprise me, but also the multitude of stations that were set up inside it. My cautious gaze took in the complete archery range, the line of solemn dummies for knife-throwing, the silent Avoxes that lined the plain white walls in matching white skin-tight jumpsuits with the Capitol's symbol on their chests. I'd recently learned what these strange people were—and wasn't quite sure how I felt about them. They were almost intimidating… working with criminals…

"Tributes, gather round," a high, clear voice conducted us, lilting up at the end as though the speaker was asking a question. I glanced at Callista briefly—she just watched the woman carefully, her mind obviously crunching over something. I had no idea what.

"I'm Indy Lorse, the Head of the Training Center. Welcome to your first day—you must be so nervous." The medium-stanced woman stood on a miniature platform to see us all—we _were_ a crowd—and smiled in a way that gave off the impression that she's delighted that we're nervous. That we ought to be. "Before you start your learning, I'd like to inform you of how these next few days will work…."

I let her words fade into a background noise as I eyed the kids around me. 23 is a lot, when you get them all together. The job of killing them all won't be easy—but it's not impossible, either. Far from it.

The tributes from 2 were the easiest to spot; both of them were bigger than me, with arms like tree trunks and slightly slacked jaws. I'd be working with them. Won't be that bad, I tried to comfort myself. They'll keep you alive, for the most part. The girl from 1 also stood out from the crowd, wearing an expression of illegible confusion and excitement on her perfect features. Another ally. I searched for the boy from 1—we were all wearing our District numbers pinned to our backs—and it actually took a few moments to find him. _He's_ from 1? The kid was small-built, with lean limbs and shiny hair. Even more so than his physical lacking was his pale expression of fear and worry—the stupid guy must've pinned the wrong number to his back. He might be from 5. Or 3.

Those four—three—plus Callista; long-legged, muscular Callista; made up our unspoken alliance. The boy from 1 excluded, we were a pretty good bunch. Content with my lot, I watched the other tributes shift from foot to foot, or try not to cry, or glance around at us bigger kids nervously. It was almost entertaining. The girl from 3 looked about to faint as soon as she laid eyes on me... that didn't feel so right, but any of those doubtful thoughts were shoved to the back of my head where they couldn't endanger my confidence. I watched the girl from 1's gaze slide up and down the boy from 3, and the boy from 11 glance at the girl from 12 in an odd sort of way—as if he was trying to be… friendly? Supportive? Hell, I don't know. I suck at reading people.

I remembered the girl from 6 from last night, when we'd watched the reply of the Opening Ceremonies. She was prettier when her ankles weren't shaking so much. Still an easy kill. The guys from 6 and 12 both looked like they were about to hurl—losers. They couldn't even hide the anxiety on their faces. But who I thought my first kill just might be was the girl with an "8" pinned to her back—crying. Not sobbing, just standing with her lips pressed together and tears rolling down her cheeks. She wouldn't last ten minutes in the arena.

"If you need a partner for hand-to-hand combat, we have many Avoxes that are here for your use," Lorse continued, an evilly knowing smile still stuck to her face. "Do be careful of each other's safety. You are free to go."

Callista and I headed to the 2's together, where judgmental eyes and nods of acknowledgement greeted us. The 1's joined us, and the girl from 2 stepped forward. "I'm Lecha. Sixteen."

The 2 boy shot a smirk at the boy from 1 as he said, "Yeah. I'm James. Seventeen." His voice was like two sheets of rusty metal grinding together… low and raspy.

"Pearlescent. Eighteen," the girl from one said cheerfully, her bedroom eyes slinking up and down my form in a way that made my spine tingle.

"Neveah," I choked. It sounded like I was gagging on something—great first impression. "Eighteen."

"Cal. Seventeen." She turned her cold gaze on the boy from 1. Her lean frame towered over the blond kid, making him look even more insignificant. "And you are?"

"Seed. Sixteen." His voice was humorously high and melodic, which stood him even further apart from the serious tones of the rest of us. I sniggered laugh, just as the others.

"Then get your skinny ass back to Eleven before we _put_ you there," Lecha snapped.

Pearlescent rolled her eyes, hand flitting dismissally in the air as she spoke. "No, seriously, he's from One. There's a kind of bead called seed beads—they're the smallest ones that you put in between the pretty beads. They're the beads that _no one wants to look at_." She drew out the end as she stared pointedly at the Seed kid.

"Whatever," Callista said impatiently. "Is he in or out?"

"In." Was that my voice? It couldn't be... but it continued. "He's in." At their disbelieving glances, I scrambled for a reason to stay within the 'cool' pack. The worst thing I could possibly do is set myself apart from them—because that makes me a target. And I'd really rather be _with_ this group of killers than _against_ them. "We could… use him as bait or something. We could use a guinea pig."

James rolled his head this way and that, seeming to think it over. He shared a single look with Lecha before nodding. "Fine. He's in. Don't even think about ditching, though, pretty boy. Because we will find you. And will have no problem making your death long and painful…"

Seed nodded hurriedly.

"Neveah and I are headed to spears," Pearlescent announced suddenly, brushing my arm with her fingers as she passed. I did _not_ like this girl. There is no way—

"And me." Callista followed us, expression as steely as ever. Pearlescent scowled for a moment as she selected a spear from the wide selection laid out on the table in front of us. It was a long, sleek-looking thing, with a head that glinted the gymnasium lights as miniature reflections. She considered it thoughtfully, long fingers stroking the hilt. The instructor of the station stepped out from behind the table, obviously seeing how the weapon wasn't comfortable in the girl's hands.

"Have you—all—ever thrown spears before?" His voice was a bit shaky, but his shoulders obviously knew how to huck a heavy object a ridiculous distance.

"No," Pearlescent said matter-of-factly, still stroking the weapon.

"No," Callista admits shamelessly.

"And you, young man?" I didn't like being called a young man. I was hardly even in school anymore—in fact, I turned 19 in only a few weeks. I planned on celebrating in my new Victor's house on the shore. With Mom and Dad comfortable in matching rocking chairs and content smiles, and my brother bopping around the balloons as my sister walked in the front door with a cake… we could live a life of luxury. I'd never have to go shrimping again. Mom and Dad could stop worrying about us when we're at sea.

"A while back."

The instructor seemed relieved to have a student that was at least somewhat familiar with the weapon. "Oh, good! How 'bout you try a throw?" He gestured to the layout of spears on the table, inviting me to pick one. I eyed the lot, immediately dismissing the metal and plastic ones for my first throw… None of these weapons resembled the crude old wood thing I'd used in spearfishing last year. I picked the one that was at least made of a similar heavy weight wood that would hopefully fly the same as my old one. Shifting the weapon from hand to hand, I considered the dummies they'd set up. One stood at five yards, one at ten, one at fifteen, one at twenty, and even a far-off silhouette of a dummy at the thirty-yard mark. There was no way I'd be able to chuck this thing that far—but I felt the girl's and instructor's eyes on me, waiting for me to do something. Fifteen yards. I could do fifteen yards, I think.

The motion of throwing the thing wasn't hard—my muscles remembered the motion—but I had my fingers crossed that it would actually hit a dummy as soon as it left my hands.

The instructor gave a low whistle. "Twenty yards. For your first throw in a while, I'm impressed."

Twenty? _Yes_. I turned to see my spear lodged deep into the twenty-yard dummy's head—his head! That was a complete stroke of luck.

"So for you beginners…" our instructor turned back to the girls, reflections of the overhead lights sliding around his bald head. "I'll work with one of you, and I think this young man would be more than capable to explain to the other…"

Callista spoke up at once. "I'd love to learn from a _professional_, thank you."

Pearlescent wasn't phased. Nor was I from Callista's insult—words didn't hurt. I didn't see how a person could be so weak that a bit of sound could cause them pain. And anyway, whatever someone says can be countered by your own thoughts. Easy. Words are harmless.

Spears, though…

I didn't like the image of this ridiculously pretty girl holding such a lethal weapon. She'd probably dislocate her shoulder trying to lift it above her head. Nonetheless, she came toward me eagerly enough.

"Teach me," she said with that same smile I hated. The one that would make weaker men wilt for her… but only sent uncomfortable warmth coursing down my back. My brother once told me that a girl could be just as deadly as the waves. He said they're good at catching you in their net, and pulling you under, until you're so helpless to their influence that you'd be happy to drown in them.

I'm not my brother.

"Hold it like this. Which hand do you normally use? All right—hold it down here, and line it up with your arm like this. Keep it really even, and just sort of…" I let my spear fly. It wobbled and hit the fifteen-yard dummy's arm. Not a lethal shot—not even that great of a shot.

Pearlescent was impressed, though. "Oh okay, I see. Like… this?"

"Move your hand lower on the shaft. Lower. Here," I fixed her small grasp for her, so the thing wouldn't hit her own foot when she threw it. She looked down at my hand correcting hers, then up at my face. Which was _way_ too close.

"Like that." I sprung back a few feet. "Now throw it. Like I did."

It hit the ground before the five-yard dummy.

She admired her work with her hands set on either side of her broad hips. "Good, huh?"

"Yeah—uh, I'm going to go learn about…" I glanced wildly around. "Knives."

"Really? I'll come—I'm a bit better with them."

Of course. There was no shaking her. So I let her lead me to the knives station, where her whole expression changed. It lit with a certain mischievous glint as she admired the light bouncing off the blades—long blades, short blades; curved blades, serrated blades… and no dummy stood a chance to her knife-y wrath. She'd landed two blades in a heart and one through the head before I'd realized she'd begun to throw. Alright. She's a good ally.

Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, I clocked the other tributes, in case someone had a hidden talent I'd be dumb to blow off. Lecha and James were surrounding the boy from 3—threatening him, by the looks of James' face. More power to them—I guess this is what we need to get a threatening image. I glanced around for Seed, and eventually found him on the archery range. His arrows were just missing the bulls-eyes by centimeters... the kid was a great shot. The other kids at the archery station paled in comparison, especially the guy from 7—his arrows missed the targets completely and bounced off the far wall. The girl from 9 was listening intently to a knot instructor, along with a short redhead boy from 10. He was the only 12-year-old this year, I realized. Another easy kill.

The girl from 12 was studying edible plants, with that same guy from 11 pointing stuff out to her and talking her ear off. I didn't like him, either. I saw why the other Careers had blown him off—he appeared to be thin from a distance like this. But listening to the Head of the Training Center talk, I'd noticed that he actually did have more to him. Lean muscles stretched over his arms and calves, and his face and hands were cut, suggesting a life of hard work…

The teary girl from 8 was being slowly instructed with a sword that looked completely out of place in her hands. Her arms were shaking so madly, the instructor had to put her arms over the girl's, to help support the weight of the weapon. The girl from 10 was trying her hand with a mace—another bad fit. There was no way she would be able to swing it properly without messing up her footing.

Interesting crowd, I decided. But nothing incredible.

It was a relief when they called lunch. I don't think I could've taken more of Pearlescent's odd flirting, or the other tribute's nervous assessments. But of course I would have to.

The lunch room was set up with just enough tables for each of us to have a spot, surrounded by carts with food from every District, plus the far better Capitol cuisine. Pearlescent stuck to my side as we loaded our trays with food and claimed a table for the six of us, chattering about who was doing what and what that means for us and blah blah blah. I knew it was actually important information, but I just didn't want to hear it from _her_. This girl rubbed me wrong.

Callista slid her tray down across from mine. "Did you see the boy from Six?" she hissed intently to the both of us.

"Yeah," Pearlescent smiled slowly. "I've got dibs, girl. We're _established_."

"I—what?" Callista shook her head slightly. "I'm not _checking him out_, ditz, I'm saying he's really, really good with a sword."

"A sword?" Pearlescent's head tilted slightly to one side. "How would he know how to use a sword—he's from Six!"

"I don't know, but he is. Let's hope there isn't too many swords in the Cornucopia. And… the girl from Five is great with the traps. Which _sucks_. I was hoping we wouldn't have to watch out for that sort of thing as much…" She waved the idea off with her hand. "It was a stupid hope."

"What was a stupid hope?" James slid in beside her. "Nevermind. That kid from Three has huge potential. We've been trying to recruit him... but he's being _difficult_."

"Three?" asks Pearlescent in amazement. "But Three's are like, electric geeks."

"Not this kid." Lecha leaned in to speak to us more intimately. "Did you see the scar? It's from a _knife_. I don't know how a Three kid got mixed up with a knife, but I'm guessing he didn't cut himself."

"Hm." Callista pushed some chunks of neon Capitol fruit around her tray. "Or it could've just been a bully. He's not that big of a kid."

"What says you, pretty boy?" James leered over at Seed.

Seed shrank a bit in his chair, much to James' twisted delight.

"I say he's incredible with a bow," I announced to the table. Seed looked at me in horror, as if I'd just called him on stealing jewels and then tattled to the Peacekeepers. Something about his expression made me immediately regret my words.

"Is that so?" Lecha smiles in a very artificial way down at the blond boy. "Guess you'll be more useful than I thought. Good choice, boat boy."

"My name is Neveah." The words are a bit harsher than I'd intended them to be—Lecha looked a bit taken aback.

"Alright, mister Neveah, do go on. It's nice to hear words coming from your mouth."

I just stuffed my mouth with leafy Capitol lettuce and chewed in silence.

"C'mon," Lecha taunts, leaning forward onto her elbows. "You have nothing significant in your life? No family? Friends? _Lovers_?" She laughed. At least, I think it was laughing… it was a choked sort of wheezing noise that seemed to come from her throat. "Your lips are certainly chapped enough."

Her comment made my tongue slid over my upper lip, _again_. I think it's because I kept expecting the sharp tang of salt, and never got it. So I kept trying.

When I didn't answer, she turned on Callista. "Well? Do you know anything about the silent wonder?"

"I'm Cal. I _do_ have a name, and would appreciate your using it. Really, Lecha, this shouldn't be that hard, even for you; it's just three letters."

She, James, and Pearlescent laughed. I didn't think it was all that funny. No duh 'Cal' only has three letters.

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The next two days went in a very similar way to the first—wake up early, have a Capitol breakfast, head down to the gym. Eat lunch with the other five. Continue training until dinner, back on the fourth floor. I do well with routines, and it felt nice to be able to slip back into one. With a few new skills under my belt, I felt much more ready for the arena. I couldn't wait to kill Lecha first. She had been a complete pain all throughout Training, trying to stake her claim as the leader of our alliance. And we went on letting her think that—for now, at least.

The excitement was almost tangible in the air of the lunchroom on the third afternoon. Because after this, we're headed to the Private sessions with the Gamemakers. Where we could show they what we're _really_ made of.

"The Cornucopia," Cal insisted on our flighty attentions over our lunch. "We rush it. Seed and I grab the most important weapons for us, plus any that the others might need. Any knives are going straight to you, Pearl. Neveah, James, and Lecha—kill anybody who isn't already out of there. The more we can pick off, the less we have for later."

Everyone nodded vaguely to our much-discussed plan, making Cal slap her hand to the table persistently. "Hello! _Listen_, people! If any one of us strays out of the plan, we'll _all_ go down. We can't let them arm themselves, or let too many get away. And we definitely can't let them pick us off. We rush the Cornu, and travel as a large pack from there. There's power in numbers," she sat back contently, "and there's a fourth of all the tributes in our alliance. We're going to win this thing." By 'we're,' she obviously meant 'I'm'. Not like either of the 2's or Pearlescent noticed. Seed did—but Seed noticed everything.

We were eventually funneled into a small waiting room with couches and chairs that we could lounge in while we waited for our name to be called. It was nice enough, but all the soft surfaces did little to cushion my nerves. What am I going to show them?

It didn't take long for Seed to be called, being the boy from the first District. He disappeared into oak double doors that showed us a peak of the gym we'd worked in all morning.

I'm not really good with edible plants... and anyway, what kind of a display is that?

Pearlescent was called quickly after.

I could… tie some knots. That's something I've been doing my whole life. But I couldn't exactly tie a knot on a piece of string and expect high scores…

James was swallowed up by the swinging double doors.

There's no way I can do anything that James can't. After seeing him, I'll look wimpy. A James wannabe.

Lecha smiled her way into the gym.

An idea suddenly struck me. _Of course_.

That boy with the scar limped across the room to the doors, displaying his weakness to everyone left on the couches. Lecha wanted to recruit _him_?

This was going to be so perfect.

The girl from Three had to be thirteen. If not twelve, like that redhead.

And suddenly it was my turn.

"Neveah Bosun?" The Capitol lady waved me through the doors.

It was strange, having the whole gymnasium to myself. Except for the Gamemakers that were making themselves comfortable on the bleachers high above me. One of them, a balding man in the middle, leaned forward to a tiny microphone set up in front of him. "Neveah Bosun, District Four?"

"Yes," I said as clearly as I could. I tried to stand tall, letting my newfound confidence swell.

"What do you have to show us?" He sounded almost bored. At least his partners were all watching me carefully.

"A lot. I have a lot to show you."

* * *

**Neveah has been by _far_ the hardest to write. And, as the author, I still think this chapter is awkward. And a bit choppy. I'm still figuring out how to do a guy's first-person, much less a not-so-smart Career's first-person. I do like the character, don't get me wrong. He's just hard to write.  
I hope I didn't completly destroy him. I hope he's still a little different than the other Career-y Careers (namely the 2's and Pearl).**

**Let me know what you thought. Next chapter should be better- everyone loves Caesar! And if the interviews are next, you know what's only two short chapters away... excited?**

**Topsy **


	6. Interviews

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Arrett, _listen_. You're the smallest. The target of everyone in the whole arena. You're going to have to disappear. Quickly and silently, so they won't even know you're gone until they come hunting you."

I nodded along, tracing patterns on the suede carpet with my shoe tip. At least I think it's called suede. I'd never seen the stuff back in 10—anything soft or pretty was clogged with mud back home. And animal smells.

"And they _will_ come hunting you. Don't think that you can just hide and they'll forget you."

I continued to bob my head.

"And you, Sora…" Canon, our mentor, looked at my fellow tribute helplessly. "You apparently know what you're doing, and I'll probably be able to influence you when hell freezes over."

Sora just nodded matter-of-factly. "I can take care of myself."

"Maybe at home, but this is the arena, little girl. Keep in mind that there's twenty-three people out to _kill_ you."

"I know what I'm getting myself into. I knew when I volunteered."

Canon just shrugs and says, "All the best to you, then."

I study my mentor for a second—he can't be much older than 20. He won the games three years back, when he was 17, and muscular, and tall, and completely able to snap a tributes neck with his own hands. You would never guess that, though, from his gentle teaching style. He always told me that he knew how I felt, going into the Games. That he'd done it himself not too long ago. But I still failed to understand how he could _possibly_ compare out situations—I was five years younger than he'd been, and a foot and a half shorter. A hundred pounds lighter. He'd gone in with a chance, and I'm going in with… what I learned in the Training Center. Which wasn't all that much.

Canon stood up from his cushy armchair and stretched with a yawn. "They'll be airing the private training scores in a few minutes. And there's not much else I have to teach you that you won't be able to figure out yourself." He plucked a paper-thin remote from the table beside his chair and sank back into the cushions with a content sigh. "Beats herding cows, huh?"

"No," I said at the same time Sora sighed a "yes." We glanced at each other for a moment, but I couldn't get to telling her off, because Canon had just flicked on the TV.

The wide, mounted flat screen showed us the Capitol's symbol on a simple black background. It faded to a blue screen, with a list of the tributes—our District, gender, name, and age. I quickly scanned the "Age" column, and only had my thoughts confirmed when the only 12 was next to Arrett Hayes. That's okay. I knew that already. No big deal.

But it felt like a big deal in that moment.

"Greetings, Panem, and welcome to the pubic airing of our tribute's Private Session scores." The screen didn't change, but the high male voice came in over it. A voice-over, I think it's called.

"We have a very exciting group this year—many unique characters that are sure to be wonderful contributions to the Games!" It was a different Capitol voice, but still obviously a man.

"Right you are, Rodly. I'm already _so_ looking forward to the arena—I wonder what it will be?"

"I haven't a clue—the secret has been so well kept. Oh, here comes our first score!"

The screen changed to a snapshot of that boy from 1. He was a surprise in the fact that he was _tiny_. For a Career, anyway. With sleek blond hair carefully pulled to one side and a knowing smile, he worried me.

_Seed Goodmen_, the screen read over his picture. Seed? That's odd. Normally 1 people have stupid names that have to do with the luxury items they make, like Glitter or Sparklepuff (true story—one Games there actually was a gorilla of a tribute called Sparklepuff).

A huge 9 was stamped on top of his picture in a thick black. 9? How did such a small guy get a _9_? I'm scared to know.

The next picture was of an extremely pretty girl with flowing blond hair and pale blue eyes. I recognized her from the chariots. _Pearlescent Liner_. 9.

Canon gave a low whistle. "Careers, remember. Careers always score high." Sora and I nodded numbly, eyes glued to the screen.

A huge boy with dried-up black hair and a wide jaw. _James Clickit_. 8.

An equally huge girl that could have been James' sister. _Lecha Smoketon_. 7.

The boy with the nasty scar and foggy eye. Even in the photo, his blue eyes seemed to be burning. _Charles Hunter_. 5. I shivered.

A bony-faced girl with a frown. _Ida Topia_. 3.

The idiot in the shrimp suit—with the bleached blond hair, tanned, tough skin, and watery green eyes that stared out at the camera in a solemn sort of way. _Neveah Bosun_. 8.

A smart-eyed girl with a similar tan. Maybe she goes to the same salon her buddy does. _Callista Cade_. 7.

A scraggly, zit-covered boy. _Matthew Ply_. 2.

Canon snorted. "Five's never do well."

_Lilia Copper_. 6.

"Hm. Unusual."

"Traps," Sora explained in a monotone, eyes sticking to the picture on the screen.

_Raymond Heartly_. 7.

_Analyse Fellows_. 3.

_Kresley Mulch_. 4.

_Daneilla Patchin_. 3.

_Kill, kill, kill_, I ticked off in my head as their photos came and went, to varied reactions from Canon.

_Micheal Roe_. 2.

_Baize Claremont_. 1.

"One?" Canon burst out laughing. "I can't remember the last time they actually gave a kid a one before! She must have done something terrible! Or... not done anything at all!" I didn't think it was all that funny. It just meant that she didn't have any skills that she wanted to show the Gamemakers.

_Thepro Hile_. 4.

_Suzu Sendora_. 10.

Canon choked on the drink he'd been sipping, and Sora even gave a small sound of distress. "I don't remember her having any special talents…" she said in confusion.

"Well they certainly don't always show what they can do in the Training Center, do they?" Canon placed his drink back on the side table carefully.

_Arrett Hayes_.

I inhaled sharply, heart suddenly pounding double-time. _Please be more than five_, I begged in my head. _More than five, more than five…_

8.

Canon smiled broadly and clapped my back so hard; I nearly fell off my chair. I must've been smiling from ear to ear too, because he burst out laughing after seeing my expression.

"Great way to kick it off, little man. What did you show them, anyway?"

"Not much…"

But Sora's picture was already on the screen, and she was waving for us to shut up.

_Sora Keiler_. 6.

I was worried she might freak out like girls do sometimes when they're beat by a boy. I took a bracing breath and waited for the excuses, to reasons why she messed up to get a score that's actually quite good—but she just smiled in her own tiny way and sank back into her chair. Content with her 6.

_Sparrow Kingston_. 6.

_Rosa Hertbranch_. 3.

_Darious Flint_. 4.

_Aislin Lieds_. 5.

And then the commentators were chatting about some useless detail—like Pearlescent's hair or something—before reminding us all to tune in the day after tomorrow for the interviews with each tribute. The Capitol symbol. And the TV clicked off.

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"I'm here to talk to you about how to do your interview," said Canon lazily, leaning back further in his chair. His short brown hair was mussed in a way that suggested he hadn't been sleeping well—I couldn't really blame him. He had to prepare two kids for death every year… I'm glad he'll finally get a victor this time around.

"Thing is," Canon continued, lazy eyes focused vaguely on me, "I don't think I need to tell you much more than you already know. I still think you should go for the loveable angle, just for the sake of sponsors—"

My lip curled. I don't do _loveable_.

"—but feisty works, too. Fits you better, actually. Point is, give them something to remember about you. Not just the boy from District Ten—but the redhead with a hella fight in him. Got it?"

I nodded. How we were going to fill four hours with this, I had yet to understand, but it wasn't too hard so far.

"Alright. Let's practice. I'm Caesar Flickerman. And you're you." Canon straightened considerably, pasting a winning smiling on his features. "So Arrett," he said in that sly way of Caesar's, "what is your favorite color?"

"Gold." I tried to speak as if I were talking to Rosie—but Rose wouldn't be asking what my favorite color is.

Canon winced as if I'd slapped him. "Wrong. So incredibly boring. _Wrong_. Let's try again." I was too boring? I only said one words, for cryin' out loud. "What's you favorite color?" Canon tried again.

"Gold," I snapped. Partly out of annoyance, and partly because that's what I thought feisty sounded like. Canon nodded in approval.

"Careful not to sound too bratty," he warned before continuing.

My favorite food is apples.

I like to spend time with my sister.

I had two older brothers, Niart and Kello. That's "nie-art".

They were killed. In a stampede.

Canon clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Can't say that in the interview. Though heaven knows how common that is in Ten…"

"Why can't I?" That was ridiculous—surely my older brother's deaths were important enough to mention vague detail on.

"Capitol won't like it."

He must've seen my look of confusion, because he continued, "It makes it sound like your home is dangerous. Which," he waved off my objections, "it abseloutely is. Two out of ten people are killed in stampedes in Ten, but to the soft-headed Capitol people, Ten is just a livestock-filled, peaceful District. And we need to keep them in the dark."

I tried not to let this get to me as he continued with my inquiry.

I run fast.

It's a goat horn. Yes, _goat_.

I have a friend named Cloy. Rhymes with toy.

The questions went on and on until fake Caesar had learned everything I was willing to share about myself, which is actually quite an accomplishment, seeing how I normally suck at that topic. I don't understand how people can just ramble on about their lives, no matter how dull—I hear Rose's friends do it sometimes. Those friendships never last long.

"What are some of your mother's hobbies?"

"She doesn't have time for hobbies."

"How about your father?"

"He… would rather spend time with his precious bottle than anything else."

I averted to my gaze to the carpet again, listening to Canon sigh in exhaustion. "You're done," he finally said, after a heavy moment of universal thought.

"Really?"

He nodded and waved for me to leave. "Bring Sora. And good luck with your etiquette session." I might've imagined the way his nose crumpled when he mentioned my session, but I was moving too fast to really care. I was so relieved to be rid of the blaring questions that I almost ran headlong into Sora herself as I charged down the hall.

"You're taller—" I shut up when I saw her scowl. But it was true! She's not that tall of a girl, but now she towered over my head enough that I had to crane my neck to see her expression.

"High freakin' heels." I was surprised at the venom in her tone—I'd only ever heard her talk a few times, and her voice was always soft and short when she did. Nothing like the whipping words she didn't hesitate to use now. "I have to walk in these things—what if I break an ankle? They have to consider how that would hinder my chances in the arena! Or I fall and my face gets messed up? I have nothing to work with already—you have it so easy, Arrett. Everybody already loves you. But me—"

She cut herself off, closing her eyes and taking a slow deep breath. Her voice was suddenly soft again when they reopened. "I'm sorry. It's stupid to take this out on you. Good luck in ettiqette."

And she brushed right past me as if she hadn't been having a minor breakdown minutes earlier. I wasn't one to judge (I was actually impressed that she'd made it this far without her guard slipping), and only one point of her rant really stuck; _Everybody loves you already_.

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Does he always wear midnight blue suits? Or just for all the Games interviews he does? I would think he'd get tired of the same clothes every day… but then again, I only have a select few clothing items, and it doesn't bother me.

Caesar's casual banter with the crowd was sometimes interrupted by loud round of laughter or applause at one of his jokes. His charm had given us time to slip into the studio and take our seats in between the tributes of 9 and 11. The girl from 9 was less than six inches away from my elbow, and the proximity bugged me. Did they have to seat us so close to the kids we'd be killing? The girl's hazel eyes were fixed placidly on the stage, which sat only a few feet away from our charis in the shadows. She brushed a strand of black hair away from her face with calmly disguised impatience as Caesar finally wrapped up his spiel with the audience and called the girl from 1 up to the stage.

The study swelled with applause—the girl was in a brightly shimmering, strapless mini dress that didn't do a very good job of hiding what's supposed to be hidden. The mane of blond hair was loose and relaxing on her pale shoulders, and a secret smile curved the edges of her fine lips.

"Pearlescent Liner, everyone!" Caesar shook her hair daintily before gesturing to the seat opposite him. "We only have two minutes, so let's dive right in!"

Most of the questions were pretty tame at first—he complimented her hair, asked a bit about her friends and family, if she had a boyfriend ("Just one?" she'd squeaked, shooting a suggestive glance at the boy from 4)—and it wasn't until the last minute that he tried to crack into her thoughts on the Games.

"Pearl, it's so terribly hard to think of something so beautiful being able to stick around in the arena. How are you going to manage it?"

She bit her finger, as if thinking (though I don't think she'd be capable of such a complex action) before grinning mischievously. "Guess you'll just have to wait and have your mind _blown_."

Her two minutes were up—Caesar thanked her and called up the 1 boy.

Seed Goodmen. "Seed—is that right? What a unique name!"

"It's a bead," Seed answered in a high, melodic voice that wasn't completely out of place on his small frame. "A tiny but essential one. Just a glint of color…"

"So an agent in disguise. Do you think that reflects on you?"

Seed's mouth opened, but nothing came out. The color from his cheeks drained at little as he noticed a camera in the corner, its beady lens fixed on him.

"Of course you can't answer _that_. Don't want _all_ your secrets spilled. So instead answer me this; do you really feel like you could be the Victor this year?"

"Yes," he sang quietly. "I think I could. I just hope I can keep that in mind once we actually get out there."

"That's the key. Optimism. You can't win I you tell yourself it's impossible. It helps to keep a bit of home with you—what's you token?"

Seed extended his arm to bangle around a thin bracelet. "It's made out of cobalt—"

"—Seed beads. Of course." Caesar took Seed's hand and examined the bracelet with an interest that looked genuine but must be faked. I mean, it's just a bracelet.

"But they're beautiful! Amazingly tiny—it must be a real talent to work with them."

And it went on. As far as I could tell, both tributes from 2 were ugly, stupid brutes that had lived their whole lives in preparation for this arena. The boy from 3 caught my attention, though.

"And—ah, what's this? Your token, I must assume," Caesar leaned in to stage whisper to the unresponsive boy, "Because really, it doesn't go with your outfit."

It wasn't funny. But the audience laughed anyway.

"Yeah," the boy with the scar said gruffly. "My dad made it. Just a bit of scrap metal."

"Scrap metal? Looks pretty nice to me. What's that imprinted on it? CJH?"

"Charles James Hunter. It's a family thing, the rings."

How was Caesar not shivering from the hostility waving off this kid? He seemed to be assessing his interviewer for the best way to slaughter him onstage. That same hatred raged behind those blue eyes, even as Flickermen called up the next girl.

She was rather similar to the boy with that awful scar in the way that she didn't seem to consider words essential to an interview. All her answers were one or two words, only clipping together a sentence when it was absolutely needed.

The boy from 4 was big, but not in the same was as the 2's. His upper body was built entirely out of muscles that bulged at his shimmery blue shirt in a way that suggested a life of training for this event.

"Do you have any idea what the arena might be? C'mon, you must be wondering. We're all wondering, right?" Caesar turned to the crowd, which voiced its agreement as the tan boy shifted his seat in his chair.

"I guess I can only hope for water," he says somewhat sheepishly. "You can't really grow up in Four without knowing how to swim."

"So true. I think I'll know who our Victor will be if they launch you straight into the ocean!"

District 5's were unremarkable. I was starting to think that they'd be excellent first kills when the girl from 6 is called. I hardly recognized her without the science experiment get-up. And I personally thought she looked better without her fellow tributes drooling over her.

"Analyse, you must realize that your District has already labeled you as a brains-over-brawn type person," Caesar told her about halfway through her interview. "But would you agree with that assessment?"

She looked down into her lap for a moment, rubbing her clasped thumbs over each other. "Well," she finally started, her voice surprisingly clear, "I like to run. It sort of gives me something to do when I'm not studying."

"And you must study so much, coming from Six—do you think you're going to go into Lab as an adult?"

"I don't really know," she confessed, her cheeks turning a bit pink. "It might be nice to do something else."

The boy from Six was a total loser. The ones that my older brothers used to warn me to steer clear of—the kind that hang out with a bunch of idiot friends and wolf-whistle at girls all day. People who will make _nothing_ out of their lives.

Both the Seven's passed in a blur as I realized how close I was to having to go up there and do feisty. I could, no doubt, pull it off—but the studio audience suddenly felt like a lot of people, strangers, studying me, considering if I was worth their money…

"Oh, your dress is _beautiful_," Caesar gushed to one girl—she must've been from 8, but I'd missed her name being called. And the dress was nice; all white satin with a touch of frothy lace that gave it the feel of a cut-off wedding dress. She was obviously an older tribute, too, that much you could tell by how she actually had curves in the satin, and a more defined chin than most of the other girls who'd come and gone.

"Is it true that you're leaving your fiancé for these Games?"

She nodded, eyes a bit too glassy. "Yes. I'm fighting for him—to come home to him. We're going to be married, you know."

This earned a hearty _awwww_ from the audience; the cameras fixed on some individuals among the crowd with teary eyes and hands clutched to their chests as if it were they that were dying the week before their wedding. I had to admit, it _sucked_ for her.

"Isn't that terrible?" Flickerman actually sounded as if he thought so, too. "And—oh! My, my… it's gorgeous, Baize, it really is." He had her left hand gently in his own as to better look at something glinting on her ring finger. I could only guess it was her engagement ring. What else would you want to take to the arena right before you get married?

"Alright, then, let's see the full affect," Caesar got to his feet, pulling Baize up with him. The full sight of the teary eyes, the wedding dress, the proudly raised ring on this girl who was already branded for slaughter, brought the house down.

She's getting sponsors tonight. No doubt about it.

The boy from 8 paled in comparison to the interview that still had the audience dabbing delicately at their oddly painted and reworked faces.

And then the girl who sat by my elbow was being beckoned to the stage with the name Suzu Sendora. Suzu—weird. We had weird names in 10, to be sure (Canon, for instance; a bone in a horse's leg with a bit of a different spelling) but not like the names of 1, 2, or apparently 9.

"Suzu, being from way out there in Nine, I _have_ to know what you think of the city."

An almost mockingly bright smile lit up her features. "I love everything in this beautiful, magical city and all the beautiful, _wonderful_ people within."

Wow. That was a slap in the face to the Capitol—if only they weren't too stupid to _aww_ over that.

Caesar laughed. "It's definitely different than the Districts, that's for sure. And your private session training score! A ten! How in the world did you manage that?"

That sickly sweet smile stuck to her face as she answered, "I can be rather talented when I want."

The buzzer sounded, and suddenly I realized that I only had three minutes until it would be _my_ name being called. I was so nervous in the instant that I hardly absorbed any of Caesar and Sora's exchange. I only snapped back into attention when her buzzer rang.

"Arrett Hayes, everyone!"

Their applause was loud enough, but not the humongous swell that had greeted the Careers. I had to concentrate on not squinting as the huge stage lights hit my eyes and Caesar's hands clasped around my own.

"I have to admit, Arrett, when I saw that there was only one twelve-year-old this year, I was a bit nervous for you," Caesar begins, tilting on the arm of his chair to lean towards me.

"You shouldn't be," I snapped, perched on the edge of my chair as if I could take off at any moment. Which I couldn't, of course—the Peacekeepers by the doors made sure of that.

"Oh?" Caesar leaned away from me, eyebrows raised. "And why not?"

I could tell he was kidding, but I still didn't like how he doubted me. "I run fast. And I know how to kill."

"Seems an important skill in a Games like these." He made a show of eyeing my up and down, fingers pressed to his lips. My heart was racing with nervousness, and I felt like each camera lens was burring a separate hole in my face. I silently wished the Capitol liked feisty.

"Well, I'd personally rank you right up there with the best of them," Caesar concluded grandly, to a larger applause from the audience. A tiny amount of relief found its way into my system as I caught a glance at one of the audience members' faces. They were pleased with my attitude, their faces lit up with smiles. I'd only said a few sentences, and they were already considering me.

"I think it's a safe bet to say you're cow-smart. But do you think you'll be arena-smart?"

I considered this for a moment. "Yes. I think I will."

"So glad to hear how confident you are, being the smallest! Do you think you have any idea of what your arena might be?"

"No. I have no clue, but it doesn't matter. I'm versatile." With a toothy grin that I did my best to taint with that sickly-sweetness the girl from 9 had achieved, my buzzer went off. And the rest of my pent-up breath was released as I was shown where to step down and stand off to the side with the other tributes that had already been interviewed. We could see the interview stage from the back, but also had a little screen with the live airing of the event.

The wonderful thing about Caesar Flickerman is that he doesn't make it too hard on us. He tries his best work with us, to make us look good. But he and the 11 boy clicked much more than anyone else had. They could make jokes with each other and play off one another effortlessly—it was obvious that this kid's angle was loveable. Or maybe talkative. He appeared to be both.

"Do I look like an apple to you?" he was asking Caesar, holding out his arms to better display the shiny red shirt he sported. The translucent scarf artfully draped around his neck somewhat concealed the fact that the top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and it appeared as if his feathery-looking hair had been mussed especially for the occasion.

"Not particularly. I mean, I would think of a strawberry before an apple, wouldn't you?" He turned to the crowd, which was practically tripping over themselves to applaud.

The boy settled back in his chair, a bit more comfortable. "Good. I love strawberries."

"Do you? So you work in the berry portion of Eleven?"

"Nah—that's mostly for the little tiny kids who can't do anything else but crawl around in the dirt and pick berries. I work in the fields. Plowing, I mean. My mom works in the orchards, though. I think that's where my stylist got the apple idea."

The last few words of that portion were slightly off, as if he'd edited something out and replaced it with his mother's job.

"And Sparrow… it's a bird?"

He smiled. "Yeah. The little tiny ones that build nests in the most unusual places. Clever little things."

"And what do they look like? I admit I've never seen a bird who isn't bright purple around here."

"Well, they're sort of…" he leaned over, ruffling his own hair with one hand, talking to the ground. "This color."

I wiped the sweat off my palms and onto my fancy dress pants. This guy is good. The crowd was calling for more when his buzzer forced him offstage.

12's are never that good-looking. They're either pasty pale with blond hair, or olivey with dark hair. And this girl fell into the latter category, but there must've been a change in her face or something that somehow made her almost _pretty_.

She had the same sort of idea that the girl from 4 had—answer quickly, in as little words as possible. There was a deadly gleam to her dark eyes that made me wonder if I shouldn't go out of my way to avoid her in the arena…

"Aslan, I have to ask—"

"_Ash-lin_. My name is Aislin."

Caesar hardly looked taken aback from her steely interruption. "So sorry, Aislin. But really, the question has been pressing on us all… What's going on with you and Sparrow?"

Her eyes widened for a split second, surprise registering quickly across her face. _Real_ surprise. "I—what? That's the kid from Eleven, right?"

The crowd protested loudly, claiming that she was keeping them in the dark.

"Come on, everyone saw you two in the Opening Ceremonies! Hoping to be the heartbreaker of these Games, hm? He isn't a bad-looking guy."

The screen that we were all huddle around suddenly changed to a shot of the 11 boy, who had the most odd expression; a mix between a smirk and a sheepish grin.

"Oh, him?" The girl from 12 rolled her eyes. "He's… look. I'm here to win, okay? And I don't plan on letting a scrawny field boy screw that up for me. He's been talking my ear off this whole time… it's quite annoying, actually."

The crowd _aww_'d in disappointment as her buzzer sounded. Their interest was completely lost for the boy from 12, and before I knew it, Caesar was reminding everyone that the grand launch was tomorrow morning, and be sure not to miss it!

Not like they could miss it. It was mandatory viewing for everyone in Panem… the bloodbath was only hours away.

A sudden burst of adrenaline hit my veins as I realized that in a matter of hours, I'd be standing on a launch disk, Cornucopia in sight. Enemies all around me. Mysterious arena at my hands.

And I was ready.

* * *

**Few A/N:**

**Phew, that took forever. But now we're all ready for Launch... excited much?**

_Sponsor Points, as of September 18:_

Claratrix LeChatham: 17 points

Misticalcookie: 9

Wirtting2StayHalfSane: 26

3rdbase101: 17

Twirlgirl821: 39

Akai-Pyon: 22

MadMan95: 11

Song of the Moon: 5

Lightninllamas: 5

Vampirah: 15

Right now, the only way you can earn points is to review with comments on the writing or character portrayal. But very soon you'll be able to spend these hard-earned points to help other mentor's tributes. Other. Mentor's. You might want to look back and consider which tributes have caught your attention- and I know I haven't gotten around to every one of the ten focus tributes yet. Call it unfair. I call it the Games.

Which presses the question, **who do you want to Launch with?** The breifly mentioned Sora of 10... is she really all that delicate? Or the mysterious Suzu of 9, with her 10 in Private Sessions? Baize, the wet-cheeked girl with a wedding to come home to? Cal, the determined girl from 4 who seems to have this whole thing figured out? Or... Sparrow, who really is a lot more than a friendly voice and a taste for strawberries?  
Let me know which one of those five is your pick in a review. I'm playing God here, so I might get bored of waiting and just start writing the exciting day without your input.

**I must apologize to everyone who's tried to review and been told that they already have- I totally messed up the system when I deleted the chapters before the Reapings ('Calling all Children of Panem', 'Tributes List', 'Final Slips', etc.). I _think_ there were four that I deleted, which FF cleverly called Chapters 1-4. You might've reviewed the Reapings, which I _think_ were Chapter 5, hence FF thinking you've already reviewed 5 when you were trying to review the Neveah Chapter. I'm pretty sure you should be able to review this one and all the ones after this without problems (at least I hope so), but sorry again! And if it still won't let you review, and you can't find a chapter that you can review under, feel free to PM me your review and I'll credit your points.**

**I'm sorry if I don't update as much, but school is getting in the way, as is some bad news off a doctor's tongue regarding a boyfriend and some chemo. Reviews make my day, and might even provide a smile... something that events of late have been warding off.  
I'll do my best to get up a chapter every weekend, but I do have some things that outrank FF. Sorry. **

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	7. Launch

**24 tributes.  
****10 submits.  
****14 expendables.  
****6 Careers.  
****3 alliances.  
****3 loners.  
****1 birthday.  
****1 bloodbath.  
****1 kiss.  
****4 Gamemaker traps.  
****9 tragedies.  
****10 lies.  
****23 deaths.**

**1 Victor.**

** This is it.**

**

* * *

**

I'm not nervous. I'm ready. I can do this. _I'm not nervous_.

I anxiously swiped my sweaty palms over my shorts for the millionth time since my stylist had helped me into the arena outfit. Trying to keep my thoughts corralled, I squeezed my eyes shut and placed my hand against the cool glass tube I was trapped in.

This much I knew: my name is Suzu Sendora. I was taken from District 9. I am about to be shot into an arena that I can only suppose will be wickedly hot, considering my short shorts, tank top, and flimsy sandals. I will then compete in the Hunger Games, making an alliance fast and early if possible. With one of those girls—either from 10, 6, or 12. I'd rather have 10 or 6, considering 12's terrible attitude, but this isn't a time to be picky. We'll kill the 2's. We'll kill all we can. I'll kill her. The odds are completely against me—which is why it will be such a shock to the Capitol when I _win_.

And suddenly the ground beneath my feet is shooting upwards, the glass sliding by dangerously fast. I'm engulfed in darkness with my stomach left down in the Launch Room with my concerned mentor and air headed stylist. _I'm ready. Find an alliance. I'm ready. Get to the Cornu. I'm ready_.

And light—bright, harsh light, half direct, half reflected—was suddenly surrounding me, replacing the glass tube with the stinging air. It only took a lungful to know that there's some sort of salt nearby. Taking a glance around, I didn't doubt it was in the form of water. Not that I could see any. But because my disk was surrounded by perfectly smoothed, sparkling white sand. No footprints or machine tracks left any evidence that anyone had previous walked the ground between the blindingly bright Cornucopia and me. Just sixty yards away—it hurt to look at, so I couldn't tell how well it was stocked. The gold reflected off the sand it sat on, adding to the harshness of the light.

And the heat. Not boiling, yet, but still much warmer than the stuffy Launch Room had been. _Unimportant—look around_. The Cornucopia, and, I noticed upon glancing around, the other 23 tribute's disks, were in a sort of clearing. Ten feet behind me was the start of a thin forest of palm trees, growing straight out of the sand. I could easily see through them; each one had to be ten or fifteen feet away from the next, and there was no other shrubbery or foliage to be seen. I squinted harder, trying to see all the way through the trees… but didn't get the time, because Claudius Templesmith's voice was suddenly booming through the bright blue sky.

"_Let the two hundred sixty-second Hunger Games… begin!_"

My feet were moving before I'd told them to, up to the shining gold horn in a blind fit of adrenaline. I didn't have any time or thought to be annoyed at how the sand slowed my jarring footsteps, because I could see what hid in the shadow of the huge thing. Backpacks. Just backpacks. No weapons—unless, of course, they were hidden in the neon yellow drawstring packs. I was within twenty feet when the awareness of people around me suddenly hit.

A tall boy was right behind me, breath ragged with exertion and nervousness. He had at least ten inches on me—and was diving directly at my legs. I didn't have time to think, if I'd been capable of such a complex action, and we both went down quickly and hard. The sand did little to cushion my fall and more to get sand up my nose and in my mouth. The boy was still clinging to me—I thought I remembered him as the boy from 12 in the interviews—and his large hand was just reaching for my throat when his crazed expression suddenly went slack, his thin body collapsing on top of mine. There were other people around me, a terrible amount of people, but my brain could only register one. She stood over her fellow tribute with a knife clutched in one hand, the other extended to me. "We're alliancing!" she yelled, yanking me none too gently to my feet.

Her name escaped me, but her face didn't. Not that I was seeing much of it, what with her twirling with that dripping blade to slash any tribute within five feet of her.

"Grab something!" Her shriek was desperate, as if she was seriously reconsidering her choice of alliance. She shouldn't have—I had three backpacks in my arms by the time her plea was out.

She snatched one from me and shoved her knife between her teeth before jerking her chin bluntly to the trees and darting off at a surprising pace in that direction. I followed as quickly as I could, spurred on by adrenaline but hindered by the ache the boy from 12 had left in my knees.

Cannon after cannon. Their mournful sounds filled the air, but we were getting a good distance between the Cornucopia and us and I felt a bit safer with every step. Not that I even knew this girl. I just hoped that her toughness hadn't been a show for sponsors, and that she actually knew how to take care of herself.

After what seemed like hours of blind running, she let her neon pack fall to the sand. "This is good," she said bitterly through ragged breaths, but her expression was too anxious for her to actually feel save here. I didn't feel entirely safe here—we were surrounded by the same widespread palm trees that we'd been darting through for hours. Nausea built up in my gut, partly from running, partly from running in the warmth, and partly from sheer anxiety of actually being in the arena, in the middle of nowhere, with twenty three—twenty two, with my alliance—people out to kill me. I swallowed the bile down hard, refusing to make such a gross first impression on the person who was still deciding whether to kill me or not. And she could probably kill me much faster than I could her, I knew from watching her slice and dice one boy in particular at the Cornu.

We both stood there for a moment, eyeing each other as our ragged breath slowly began its decent back to normal. Ashley. I think that's her name. She had the olive skin and grey eyes that marked her as a 12 kid, but there was a certain set to her lips and tensing in her cheeks that gave off the impression that she was about to insult you. I could deal with being insulted. Just not killed.

"Alright," she finally piped up. "I don't want a friend. I don't want to be friendly. I don't want someone to talk to. Actually, please _don't_ talk to me. But let's agree to terms before we dive into this."

I nodded as if I knew what 'agree to terms' meant, exactly. It worked well enough, because she continued in that steady, clear voice of hers. "We agree not to hurt, betray, or kill one another, and do everything we can to keep each other alive. Until the final eight. At which time, we'll peacefully shake hands and go our separate ways, alliance broken. Understood?"

"Yes." I was still a bit shaky from the run, but not so much that I couldn't shake her outstretched hand.

"Great." Her mood lightened a bit as she dropped to the backpacks, knees digging into this fine white sand. I did the same, grabbing the nearest bag and yanking it open before turning it upside down to empty its contents. A pair of wrap-around sunglasses. Three rubber bands. A pair of sheers. And a scarf—woolen, by the feel of it.

Ashley studied what I'd dumped, brow creased in thought. "Well—the sunglasses are obvious. The blades will be helpful. The bands and scarf, though… what the hell…?" She'd carefully wrapped the scarf around her own neck—which looked sort of odd over her tank top. "I could be a weapon, potentially," she concluded, testingly jerking the ends to tighten around her own neck. "If we had to hang someone… this makes no sense…"

I re-stowed that pack, except the sunglasses, which I slid over my gaze. The change was instant and wonderful—all the harsh, bleached colors subdued into more tolerable tones. "These are incredible…" I said vaguely, looking up at the previously blinding sky with shadows of the huge palm leaves.

Ashley was already pawing through the second pack, with that same confused annoyance flitting on her features. "A blanket. Some matches. I'm not sure what this one is." She drew a shiny cylinder from the bag, examining it from all sides carefully.

I hardly had to glance at it twice. "A flashlight." I reached for the third bag.

"What?" she snapped.

"A flashlight…? Press the black button."

She glared at me accusingly. "If it blows up, I will personally make sure you die painfully."

I was about to point out that she'd be dead if it blew up, but she'd already clicked it and noticed the light emerging from the bulb on one end. She shone it around a bit, vaguely interested, before flicking it off and stowing it in the bag with the blanket.

"This one has… _yes_." I drew the huge two-liter bottle of water from the neon yellow canvas, feeling the coolness of the liquid seep through the plastic and to my hand. It felt nice to hold in the warm breeze, and Ashley made a satisfied hiss as she looked up. "Don't drink any. We're dead without that. And I don't know if we'll be able to find fresh water around here for a while."

I slid the heavy bottle back into the pack and rummaged around its bottom for any other contents. "Mittens," I reported.

"Serious? Nothing else?"

"It's a pretty good haul."

"That it is. But we're not going to be able to haul it unless we find some water. Heat dehydrates you." She stood, swinging two packs onto her back. I was about to offer to take one when I realized she'd left me the one with the heavy water in it. Of course. With a small sigh, I slung it onto my back and set off after her, leaving fresh dips in the sand as we went.

For a while, we just walked in silence. She had her knife in one hand, the other helping to support one of her pack's straps, her teeth digging into her lip as she scoured the sandscape for any hint of water.

"You can bet it's going to be a freezing night," she said resignedly after a while of walking. My heart had yet to return to a normal pace… I just couldn't wrap my head around how fast everything had happened. I am in the arena, have an alliance, know the climate, have supplies and water, and am currently searching for a constant source. All in less than ten hours. Time really does fly when you're—

My breath was knocked harshly out of me as I hit the sand, pinned to the ground by Ashley's knees. Her pack forgotten, one hand pressed over my mouth, and the other clutching her still-bloody knife, she silently shushed me with an urgent hiss.

She said we could trust each other. She said we wouldn't hurt one another until the Final Eight. And even then, we'd just walk away. But now her weight had me pinned and she had that lethal knife of hers and nobody would even know…

If it weren't for the arrow.

The tiny shaft of wood was suddenly hurtling out of nowhere and into Ashley's left shoulder. She didn't scream, or even cry out, but just took a sharp breath and fearlessly tugged the weapon from her own flesh. This minor distraction gave me enough time to wriggle out from underneath her, get to my feet, and get a good ten feet between where she kneeled and me.

"You said—so does this mean our alliance is broken?" I asked, legs tensed to run, to get behind one of these palm trees so her knives wouldn't find my skin immediately.

"For God's sake, _shut up!_" she hissed; now tearing off the hem of her tank top to try and staunch the blood rushing from her shoulder.

"No, no I'm not going to, you two-faced—"

"So you were in an alliance? You two? And you were about to kill her?"

This was a new voice, drifting from somewhere between the palms behind Ashley. We both feel silent, sure of two things; one, that this voice came from the archer that had landed a blow on Ashley; and two, that he was the boy from 6. Our thoughts were confirmed when his willowy frame slipped out from behind a wide palm, bow loaded and swinging from Ashley to me and back.

I hardly had time to think before Ashley was on her feet, one of the bigger packs held in front of her like a shield. And it worked like one, too—the boy's arrow lodged itself deep into the canvas, but didn't scratch her.

"_Listen_ to me, idiots!" she whispered hurriedly, sweat beginning to gather on her brow. The boy already had his bow reloaded, but he slackened the string a bit when she dropped her knife to the sand. "There's water," she said in an even quieter voice, "about fifty yards to our right. A pond. With a running stream, I think."

I couldn't help the elation that filled my chest. Water. Perfect. Now we just need to claim the pond before someone else—

"And," she continued as the boy unloaded his bow as to hold it in one hand, "there are Careers."

Oh. She wasn't trying to kill me. She was trying to shut me up so we wouldn't be hunted… too late for that now. I noted how the sun was already slipping down the less bright sky, the sand darkening. We had to find somewhere safe to spend the night—_not_ fifty yards away from the most powerful alliance in the arena.

"There's three of us," Ashley whispered, "And six of them. Plus they're all bigger and stronger than—"

"Not that boy from One," the 6 boy cut in. "He's tiny. Someone my size could easily snap his neck."

"—there's six of them, still," Ashley persisted. "I don't know if the One boy got a hold of a bow and quiver, but if he has… they have long-distance advantage, as well."

We both nodded solemnly. I was the first to state to obvious. "We need to get the hell out of here and try and come back once some of them have gone hunting."

Nobody asked what I meant by hunting. They knew I wasn't talking about squirrels.

It didn't look like she liked it, but Ashley nodded slowly, eyeing the 6 boy. "Are you good with those arrows?"

He shrugged. "Good enough to hit you."

"Hm. If you want to alliance with us, you're going to have to agree to my terms." I noticed how she didn't say 'our terms', and was momentarily pissed. She wasn't running this boat—well, she was for now, but when we actually have to get something done, she'll need me to step in.

The boy nodded. "What are your terms?"

"We don't hurt, betray, abandon, or kill one another. Do everything we can to keep each other alive. Until the Final Eight—then we peacefully go our separate ways. Alliance broken."

I didn't like this guy. I hadn't liked him right off the bat with the chariots. He had seemed like such a creep in the interviews, but now… I carefully studied his tattered tank top and cargo shorts. He must've lost his sandals at or running from the Cornucopia, because he was barefoot with a few fresh cuts scattered across his feet. There were already a few bloodstains on his tank—which had a gaping rip down one side—and a cut across one of his jutted cheekbones. His grey-black hair was matted and tangled, dusted with the sand that stuck to every surface of our sweaty bodies. I gathered that he'd made it into the Cornucopia, grabbed a pack (I could see the yellow canvas peeking out from behind his shoulder), which had that bow of his, and had been searching for water when he'd stumbled upon Ashley pinning me with a knife.

He shook Ashley's hand firmly. She flinched away from him as soon as their hands separated. "And her. She's part of the alliance, too." She jerked her chin in my direction, carefully retying the knot of fabric on her bleeding shoulder.

He seemed a bit less thrilled at our brilliant alliance when it concerned me, but shook willingly enough. His hand was hot, and had drips of blood that transferred to my skin.

"I don't like you," I stated blandly as he released my hand.

"Good. 'Cause I don't like you."

And hence began our silent agreement to kill one another as soon as the announcement of the Final Eight hit our eardrums.

"I'm going to frickin' pass out if we don't find somewhere to stay," Ashley said in the same quiet voice she'd been using the whole time. She slung one of our packs on her good shoulder and considered the one with the arrow lodged in it for a second before fearlessly hoisting it onto her wounded side. She winced as the strap dug into the wound, but refused my helpful glance and headed back the way we'd come.

It was a silent and somewhat awkward walk through the palms as breezy darkness set in. Ashley was a tad slower than she'd been on the way out here, probably because of how the strap chaffed her shoulder with every step, getting thoroughly bloodstained. When we finally reached the place where our scuffed footprints where gathered, complete with brush marks from where we'd set our packs, Ashley immediately dropped her load and sank to her knees, re-assessing her soaked through makeshift bandage. "Do shoulders normally bleed this _much_?" she muttered under her breath as she peeled the stuff fabric away from her wound.

"Get some leaves," I instructed our new alliance member. He glanced at me in confusion before I stretched on tip-toe and barely managed to snatch the end of one of the lower palm leaves. With a yank, I brought the huge waxy thing down. It would work as a bed pad, I decided, if we could get two or three of them per person. Luckily, he's much taller than me and could reach the larger, more fibrous palms. When we'd harvested ten or twelve, we returned to where Ashley kneeled, pawing through the 6 boy's bloodstained pack.

"Hey—" he was about to object, but when she looked up, he reconsidered. All the color was drained from her face, highlighting the bags beneath her eyes and the way her pale lips were cracked.

"What's yours, is ours," she said matter-of-factly, ignoring his odd expression. "And what's ours might be yours if you prove yourself useful."

It didn't take long for us to lie out the huge leaves and organize our packs to be within grabbing distance if we needed to run for it. Ashley passed around small pieces of the meat she'd found in the boy's pack as we settled on our mats. "I'll take first watch," she said blandly, popping the rest of the meat into her mouth and wiping her knife on her shorts.

"You need the sleep much more than I do," I replied matter-of-factly, gnawing on my own piece.

"And you think I'm going to be able to sleep with this?" She shrugged her shoulder to display how her entire upper arm was now caked with dried blood, the wound still steadily pumping the stuff. We both glanced at the boy, who shrugged and muttered something about how it's not like it was such an offense to shoot her at the time.

"Fine. Ashley's on first watch," I declared, leaning back on my elbows on my waxy mat. It sure beat the sand, but wherever my sweaty skin touched it, it stuck a little. Which was only slightly annoying.

"_Ashley?"_ Ashley snorted. "Did you just call me Ashley? _Nobody_ calls me Ashley, little Nine girl. My name's Aislin."

I dropped my gaze to my mat, silently swearing. I hadn't meant it as a nickname—I'd been going around all this time seriously thinking her given name was Ashley. Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me.

The boy snorted around his mouthful of meat. "Raymond. And you're the girl who got the ten, right?"

It was gross, how he could somehow force words around his food. "Yeah," I said coldly, picking at a spot on my tank top. "And don't ask me to tell you how… I won't. I _do_ have a name, though. It's Suzu."

"Suzu?" he laughed. "What's that, some kind of disgusting medicine?"

I chucked one of my sandals at his head, getting a rare wave of satisfaction as it connected solidly with his temple.

"Hey!" he protested indignantly. "Isn't it against the terms to hurt one another?"

"Idiotism aside," Aislin murmured, rubbing her temples methodically. Her slightly purple eyelids were slid shut, thin eyelashes brushing her pale cheeks.

"Are you… alright?" I asked, unsure of what I could do even if she said no.

"F-I'm fine…"

And her eyes rolled up into her head as she slumped over backwards and passed out.

* * *

**The indigo sky lights up with the all-too-familiar Capitol symbol, paired with the anthem. Then the pictures, the names, the Districts...**

**District 3, Ida Topia.**  
**District 5, Matthew Ply.**  
**District 7, Kresley Mulch.**  
**District 7, Daniella Patchin.**  
**District 8, Micheal Roe.**  
**District 9, Thepro Hile.**  
**District 11, Rosa Hertbranch.**  
**District 12, Darious Flint.**

**Dead.**

A/N:

Update on **sponsoring**: We have a new system, completely different than the old one that I deleted and messed up the review system with.  
Here's how it works: you choose a tribute that you like, or think stands a chance, but who is **NOT your own**. You PM me with how many points you want to invest in that tribute- you don't have to put all your points in one place. For instance, if you had 20 points and really liked Arrett, you could PM me saying you'd like to invest, say, 10 points in him. You don't specify what exactly you'd like to buy or anything, just throw points in his direction. Then- say Arrett kills someone. You receive half as many points as you have invested in him, to be used for whoever you'd like. So in that example, you'd get 5 points from your investment that maybe you'd like to contribute to Callista. If Cal kills someone, you get another 2 points (I'll always round half-points down) that you could invest in anyone.  
_That's how you earn the points. But how you spend them:_ let's say Charles is going completely insane. He needs medication, badly. If you have points invested in him, you can buy him something:

_Small bottle of water or food item: 5 points_

_Large bottle of water or food item: 10 points_

_Other necessary tool- small: 15 points_

_Basic medicine, ointment, or clean bandages: 17 points_

_Capitol medicine (life-saving and specific to that tributes ailment): 25 points_

_Specific gift (weapon of choice, body armor... alliance of choice...): 30 points_

I know it's confusing. PM me with your questions, and point investments. *Once you invest points in a tribute, you cannot withdraw them.*  
Reviews earn you 2 points, as always.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	8. The Arena Effect

**I'm switching him from third to first person because... I feel like it. And I realize that jumping around from third to first in perspectives might mess up some of our more simple-minded readers.**  
**Enjoy.**

* * *

Something's wrong.

I know that sounds stupid, considering I'm pacing in the middle of the arena with loads of people who'd love to kill me and an environment that can become deadly at any time, but really. Something's… _off,_ about his place. Maybe it's the air—too perfectly warm. Or the sand, how luxurious it feels between my bare toes. Maybe it's just the rock of guilt in my gut that turns up whenever I think about my pitiful alliance. It was stupid of me to take pity on the kid and agree to an alliance when I know the Careers are specifically out to get him. I may be good, but I'm not enough to protect both of us from _that_ pack.

"Are you sure you're okay?" the blond kid asks from the sand. He's carefully drawn something in the fine material… a face?

"Fine," I spat, much harsher than I'd originally intended.

"Really, Sparrow—I don't think pacing is healthy. Or... very quiet, either."

"Is that so?" I clench my jaw and continue my hurried steps, back and forth, back and forth. Seed's bright eyes follow my patterns wearily.

He shrugs and goes back to his sand drawing. "Can we drink? Or is it too early?" he asks the sand.

"The sun's barely come up. We can last a few more hours before dehydration really kicks in."

"Whatever you say."

Stupid, stupid me… He's dead weight. Another mouth to feed. And I'm going to have to kill him after a while, anyway. But it'd be that way with any alliance. These are the Hunger Games, not the Districts meet-and-greet.

I came to a restless stop, leaning tautly against a palm trunk.

"So?" Seed pipes up. "What do we do now?"

I sigh, closing my eyes and trying to organize my thoughts into something that makes sense. "Can you do anything valuable?"

I didn't mean to be rude, and considering where we were sitting, it wasn't a completely listless question. He still gave me the tiniest glare before he answered.

"Yes. I can shoot. And I had a bow, too, at the Cornucopia—that jerk from Six took it. And I had about thirty seconds before the Careers noticed I was gone, so I ran."

"Empty-handed?"

"My backpack tore somewhere in the shallower parts of these… woods." He glanced around him, considering the pleasantly warm breeze and the gently swaying palms. "If you could call them that."

I'd gotten over how high and melodic his voice was a while ago—but with every glance at the thin boy, I had to remind myself that he came from a Career district. It's hard to believe, what with his long, delicate hands and shiny, swooping hair that he could've been raised to do anything but string beads along wire. But there's no denying what he did in the Training Center… if only I could get him a bow…

"Do you think there would be more than one bow in this place?" I mused, leg jostling impatiently. I couldn't shake the feeling that something is incredibly wrong…

He shrugged at his drawing. "I somehow doubt it. In most Games there's only one of each weapon type, to keep things interesting. Except maybe spears—the Careers are always well-stocked with those…"

"And you can't do anything but shoot?" I couldn't help the slightly pleading hint to my voice.

He bit his lip thoughtfully, as if he could think up another deadly talent. "I can run…"

A slight question mark slipped into his tone, which only further confirmed my thoughts of how useless he is. Without a bow.

"And _you_ can't do anything?" he pressed with the slightest annoyance.

"I—blades. Not this sort of pathetic pocket knife," I toed the pack at my feet, exposing the tiny knife inside, "but real blades. Scythes, especially…" If I could get my hands on one of those, we might actually stand a chance…

"What's a—"

"You know the Grim Reaper? He carries a scythe. A glorified one, but a scythe nonetheless. We use them in the fields to loosen the soil and sever roots. And cut crops, though we use the actual sharp ones for harvest. Wickedly heavy things—they could easily snap a spine. Or a neck."

Seed nodded thoughtfully, dragging his stick through the sand again.

I sighed in exasperation. "_What_ are you doing?"

A flash of red hit his thin cheeks. "I—um—nothing really…"

I tilted my head to look at the drawing the right way. "Is that a guy? Your friend?"

"Um," his entire pale face was beet red. "No, we're a bit closer than that… I mean…"

"Oh so he's your brother? Doesn't look a lot like you."

His hand shot out and hurriedly swiped away the drawing with practiced sweeps. "Yeah. My brother. That's it. Now—we need weapons. A bow for me and a… scith?"

"Scythe."

"For you."

"You really think there's going to be a _scythe_ in here? It's the more obscure weapon… and really tailored to me. Like a trident for a Four Career. It'd be too easy."

"And you could only really get it from sponsors… wonder how much it would cost…"

I snorted. "Sponsors? What have I done to earn sponsors yet? We're only the second day of the Games."

"Well," he sang in that light way of his, "You earned a good score in Training."

"Nobody cares. It wasn't amazing, and it wasn't terrible."

"And your chariot presentation was actually quite nice."

"All my stylist. I just had to smile and wave like the rest of you."

"And your interviews—you and Caesar were great."

"Caesar makes it easy."

"And… that girl? From Twelve?"

My restless leg stopped bouncing as that ridiculous clenching took up my stomach. Seed didn't miss my moment of hesitation.

"Sparrow? What exactly… is that whole situation?"

"We talked like twice," I snapped, harshness blunting my words. "She's a bitch if I've ever met one."

Seed fell silent, eyes dropping to my feet. "So you like her?"

I bit down hard on my tongue as the reply slid up my throat. "No," I coughed. "No, I don't think I do. We need to find you a bow."

"And beg the sponsors for a scythe."

I opened my mouth to appose, but he didn't give me the air.

"Don't! I can almost guarantee you have sponsors—you're good-looking, and social, and you have some sort of physical talent. They're probably tripping over themselves to throw money at you."

"Shut up."

"Whatevs."

I glanced down at the blond boy. "Did you just say 'whatevs'?"

His still-flushed cheeks rekindled. "No—I mean, yeah, but it's an old habit—not like a usual thing or something…"

"Anyway," I cleared my throat in a way that let him know I wasn't going to chew him out for it, "We're assuming there's only one bow in the arena, right? Then I think it's obvious what our next move is going to be."

A slow smile hit his slightly cracked lips. "Are we going hunting, Sparrow?"

I stood away from the palm trunk, swiping the pack from the sand. "That's right."

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

I didn't think luck would really be all that much help in the arena. Ever. Which is why I was so surprised—after a while of barefoot hiking across the ever-flat terrain in the warm morning light—when Seed yanked me to a silent and immediate stop. His bright eyes widened with hushed excitement, thin fingers grasping my wrist almost painfully hard.

"There're here," he mouthed. "It's," he peeked around the palm he was concealed behind, "the girl from Nine, the girl from Twelve, and…" he let out a high hiss of excitement before silently clapping his hand to his mouth. "The boy from Six. With the bow."

"Where?" I mouthed back, the small knife grasped in my fist. My knuckles shone white with the strain of gripping the weapon, my heart racing at the idea of being this close to other tributes. Would this be my first kill? It had to happen sometime—maybe it's good that it would be in an attempt to get something for my alliance.

"About ten feet away. The boy is closest, thank Luther." His singing voice was hardly audible, and he was already slipping around the trunk to get closer. The orange-y morning rays shot down in careful slices through the palm leaves far up ahead, filtering the shade in green and providing us with wonderful camouflage. Especially Seed—I could hardly even make out the arch of his spiny back, or the glint of his blond hair. They wouldn't even know what hit them.

Glancing carefully around my own trunk, I caught a glimpse of their little campsite. They lay on huge waxy palm leaves, strewn about in various relaxed poses of sleep. The breeze was toying with Aislin's hair, the thin pieces flying up and sweeping her sleeping features gently, caressing her unnaturally pale cheekbones… it was odd to see her in such a helpless state. No insult or snappy reply on her dry lips. No irritation in her purpled eyes. There was nothing about her that suggested a threat… except maybe the bloody knife that lay a few feet away from her outstretched hand. This picture reawakened the nagging at the back of my head—she'd struck me as a person who'd sleep with her weapons close by, in hand maybe. Not off to the side. Something's wrong.

The other two were on either side of her, with their respective weapons in easy grabbing distance. The girl who I assumed was from Nine lay curled on her side, her own knife resting against her stomach, sheltered by her lean body. _That's_ how you protect your valuable weapons.

But Seed's silent form wasn't heading for her. He only had eyes for the boy from Six, who lay sprawled on his mat, dirty hands inches away from Aislin's shoulder. Idiot. His long, lean bow lay dangerously close to his side, but lucky for us, it didn't touch his rough skin or grubby tank. The quiver was stocked full of arrows, too, and well within reaching distance. This would be too easy. Seed was already only a couple feet away… hand outstretched for the sleek weapon…

And one of those dirty hands shot up and locked around Seed's wrist. A surprised cry escaped my careful partner's lips, and it was right then that I knew we were screwed. Aislin will wake up any second now and gut us both with that knife of hers…

But it was the Nine girl who shot bolt upright, weapon in hand. Seed was struggling to escape the Six boy's wicked grasp while shooting panicked looks around the clearing, obviously intended for me.

It would be so easy. Just to let him die right here—I could just walk away. And I wouldn't have to worry about having to kill him later, or owing him anything, because he'd be dead.

Another yelp of pain shot from his throat as the Six boy's massive hands clenched around his wrist. With a simple twitch of that guy's fingers, Seed's wrist could snap. And I bet his neck wouldn't be all that hard either.

But I've lived my whole life protecting people, supporting people, raising people, even saving people. I'm not the kind who turns sides so quickly, which is probably what'll kill me in these Games. I'm just not a bad person.

No. I need to win. Get home to the twins. And River, and little Falcon. Seed's death will only help me get there faster. They _all_ need to die.

I raised my small blade. Seed's back was to me now—it'd be so easy. Just stick it. Go on. _For your family, Sparrow_.

My blade dug itself into the Nine girl's wrist. Which I hadn't actually been aiming for, but her outburst was satisfying, and gave me enough time to slip into the clearing and yank the Six kid's hands off my ally. He growled in frustration, twisting to sic his whole frame on me as Seed wiggled free. My ally snatched the bow and arrows and disappeared into the shadows before I could even ask for some help.

The Six guy couldn't be much bigger than me—two inches, maybe—but I had the upper hand in strength. The guy was built, sure, but there's a huge difference between growing up in a district of lab coats and a district of harsh labor. Years of towing a heavy plow around the fields, and swinging huge scythes, had me pinning him. Out of the corner of my gaze, I caught the Nine girl dart into the woods after Seed, my knife yanked from her own wrist. Crap.

I also noticed that Aislin was—still asleep. I snatched her long knife from the ground as I held the Six boy to the sand with my knees. His struggling faltered and came to a stop as I pressed the unfamiliar blade to his scruffy throat.

"What did you do to her?" I demanded, short of breath from our scuffle.

"I—what the hell—nothing!"

I pressed the blade closer to his skin. He held his chin away from Aislin's knife with a cowardly sort of fear blazing in his eyes.

"I shot her!" he coughed. "Her shoulder! She fainted—fainted from blood loss I think."

"You shot her? Why are you camping together if you _shot_ her?" My sandy hair fell daintily in front of my eyes, fringing the edges of my vision.

"Alliance."

I narrowed my eyes critically. "Liar. Why're you holding her hostage? Who's she allied with?"

A disgusting grin stretched his face. "Don't you wish you knew, farmer boy?"

A frustrated snarl escaped my throat without my permission, and this unexplainable urge to hurt him, hurt him badly, possessed my knife hand as it left his throat and moved to his cheek. Blind rage paired with my current uneasy jumpiness drew the blade in careful lines over his skin, ignoring how he hissed and moaned. Blood trickled from the cuts, just tiny beads at the edges at first, then steady trickles that striped the right side of his face.

Idiot. Blasted, evil, disgusting _idiot_.

He squeezed his eyes shut as I lifted my blade again, ready for the life of me to drive it through his dumbass throat. Then I caught a glimpse of the cuts I'd made on his cheek.

Guess what, Seed.

I can draw, too.

A sketchy outline of a small bird in flight. A sparrow, to be exact.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

It was hard to leave their camp without having anything to do with her, or killing him. But the rage had subsided, and the full impact of what I'd done hit me. That's not me—I'm not some crazy Career who delights in other's pain. I'd promised myself that all my kills would be quick and easy… I disgusted myself. What a sick, sick thing to do.

I slid down a palm trunk, well away from their camp, and buried my face in my hands. Wanting to curl up and die. Wanting to take the Capitol down for making a Game that could tear me apart like this. That could control my head like this.

I have to win. I have to win, and make a difference.

And there I sat, face hidden behind clawing hands, mind reeling in guilt, alliance lost or broken, and her knife, still wet, laying at my feet.

* * *

**I was _this close_ to ending it before the last break there. But then I would've completly screwed up your lovely mental image of Sparrow- he's not insane. Just... under the Arena Effect.**  
**And _what_ is up with him and Aislin (who's obviously not in any sort of responsive mood lately)? I don't even know. Yet.**  
**I think I'll stop asking you guys who you'd like to follow, because I'm just not that good at honoring that (if you haven't noticed). Remember to invest points in your favorite tribbie who isn't yours.**

**I'm too lazy to get you any more updates right now- sorry this chapter was a bit late.**

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy**

**P.S.  
_I hope the review system has worked out its kinks- what chapter number are we at now? Eight?_  
**_**Please do try to review properly before you PM me your review. You'd think that after 60 something of them, I wouldn't get so excited...  
****But seriously, I still love each one. **_


	9. Oasis

**And we revisit our Careers... wonder what they've been up to?**

**Yes, I've been lazy, so I'll just put it here and you can imagine them on every chapter:**  
**The Hunger Games are not mine. Charles, Callista, Neveah, Analyse, Baize, Suzu, Sora, Arrett, Sparrow, and Aislin aren't mine either. I only control the arena and their fates...**  
**Also, this Fic is rated T for language and perhaps a few 'adult themes'. Hopefully nothing too offensive (most tributes swear by their own religious figure, and I doubt I'll be able to fit a lot of steamy romance into an arena).**

**Enjoy. **

* * *

"That's bullshit, man, she's not goin' anywhere. We can find her later. I say we go hunt the One shrimp—who thinks he can ditch us without consequences." James rolled his huge shoulders with a grotesque grin, carefully cracking his knuckles. Neveah was fuming the slightest bit, but he was smart enough to let it go. He probably realized that picking a fight with James would not get him into many favor books. Lecha scowled at him as he settled back into his usual silence.

I sighed heavily, reminding myself for the thousandth time that this lot has to be good for _something_. We definitely had the fear factor working for us, but that was common for Career packs throughout the years, gained initially by our night hunting habits. Which didn't bother me—and to be honest, I'm the one running this brawn-high gang.

"So what's our plan?" Pearlescent calls from the pool of shockingly cool water as she pulls herself for its grips. Only a One would insist on bathing on the fourth day of the Games… she's made it a nightly habit now. She wrings her dark gold mane out, leaving dark drips on the white sand as she turns conspicuously away from us to pull on her bra. I try to ignore the way James watches her with bloodshot eyes, or how Lecha glares at him, and concentrate on Neveah's expectant gaze.

"We hunt tonight," I announce, to no one's surprise.

"Good call, Cal…" Lecha mutters sarcastically.

"Who?" Neveah inquires quietly. Of the group, he has the most lasting potential; there's _something_ going on up top, and he knows his way around a spear.

"The Eight girl. The engaged one."

All four pairs of eyes snapped to mine. Pearlescent was the first to speak, buttoning on her shorts with her shirt tucked beneath her arm. "_Why_?"

"Because she got a one in Training. And she's somehow lasted, what, six days—she either has a hell of an alliance, or some huge secret. Either way, she's more of a threat."

Lecha kicked the cool water with her heel in irritation. "Don't you think we should take care of that Three guy who refused to ally with us, or teach that Sid guy—"

"Seed." Pearlescent made a show of tossing her wet hair over her shoulder. "His name's Seed."

"What_ever_. Point is, don't we have more important targets?"

"Anyone who crosses our path as we hunt the Eight girl dies. Maybe it'll be one on our hit list, who knows. We leave at sundown."

I stood up from the sun-warmed rock I'd been leaning against and made my way to the poolside, ignoring the various grumblings of my allies. None of my plans had failed us yet, and seeing as we've made it almost a week without any injury, illness, or death, had found a constant source of water, and plenty of supplies—they weren't about to turn on me now.

"Who's guarding?" James growled from across the ten-foot pool as I perched on the edge to stick my legs in. The fresh water was somehow always cold here—it felt amazing against my sweaty skin. I was grateful for the umpteenth time for our little oasis… the water was drinkable, the trees bore odd, rough brown fruit that cracked open to glorious milky insides, and the wide palms overhead provided some shelter from the blaring sun. I would have thought it would be hotter—back in 4, the temperatures skyrocket much higher than this on a daily basis, sun or no. Here it's just… pleasantly warm. Just enough to draw sweat. A bit uncomfortable to run in, but heavenly to lounge under.

"Lecha, I think." I closed my eyes and tilted my face back to absorb some of the sun that fought through the palms, thinking of home and loving the hint of salt on the wind. That was another thing we had to figure out—where the salt source was. Maybe it's water, though not from an oasis like ours…

Lecha moaned in protest. "But I guarded last night!"

"And you fell asleep. Somebody could have taken our supplies, and you wouldn't even know it."

"Oh, and that would be such a tragedy," she scoffed, tone heavy with sarcasm. "What would we ever do without our wool blankets and fur coats? C'mon, Cal, it's always warm around here. Warm in the morning, warm in the afternoon, warm in the evening, warm nights. A person might actually do us a favor by taking some of our winter provisions—maybe they'd sweat to death!"

I just _hm_'d in a way that told her I honestly didn't care and reopened my eyes slowly. "Dinner time."

James sprung up at once, racing for our mountain of neon yellow packs and tugging off one marked with a sand-mud X. He snatched an apple from its depths and threw it at Neveah. If he'd meant to hit him, he failed—the blond boy caught it one-handed without batting an eye. James tossed me a pack of dried fruit, and Lecha a granola bar, before helping himself to a strip of dried meat and replacing the pack.

We chewed our provisions in silence for a few beautiful moments, before James spoke up again. "_Frak_—I hate how silent it is around here. No animals. It's unnerving."

I was about to congratulate him on knowing a word as big as 'unnerving', but I realized he's right. We hadn't seen one bird, or insect, or furry ground-crawler yet… no fishes in our little pond—just silence. The sand didn't help; it just further muffled any approaching footsteps. Hence my need for a stationary guard at camp while we hunted—we hadn't found another oasis yet, which meant that for now, we held the biggest water source. _Not_ something I was willing to desert every night just to have one more member of the hunting party.

"You're right," Lecha mused, eyeing the treetops.

"You'd think there's be, like, birds or something," Pearlescent muttered, tugging on her shirt and setting off to the pile of backpacks, presumably to find a few knives for tonight.

"It mostly means that when our food supply runs out, it's _out_," Neveah added bitterly. "No fresh meat around here."

I gave the water a kick. "There _has_ to be another food supply. Like our fruit," I nodded to the heavy branches above us, "After a while, kids are going to be getting hungry, and the Capitol doesn't really like cannibals, remember?"

"No way am I eating tribute meat," Pearlescent piped from the packs, wrinkling her small nose. "That's so beyond disgusting, even for the arena."

"If it comes down to eat a kid or starve, I think you'd choose otherwise," James chortled, as if the idea of devouring some little kid pleased him. Brawn, I reminded myself. He's just around for brawn. No brains in the matter.

"Are you lot ready to go?" I asked, pointedly changing the topic and getting back to my feet. I glanced briefly around for my trident—and found it clasped in James' broad fist.

"Ready when you are," he sneered down at me, "_Captain_."

"Give me my trident." It's the only one in the arena—no way did they really favor me so much as to give me back-ups. "And get your mace. We're leaving."

Silky darkness had begun to settle around our little campsite, and I could hear Neveah and Pearlescent prepping themselves.

"What if I don't want to?" James asked mockingly, with that sickly grin plastered to his stubbly face.

"Than you'd be breaking the alliance," I answered coolly, "And we'd have every right to turn on you and kill you on the spot. Give me my trident."

He handed the weapon over harshly, grin still present. "Hell, Cap'n, you can't take a joke?"

"Ha. Ha. Would you rather stay guard here, or come with us? Get your act together, Clickit."

He grumbled as he hunted down his bloodied mace, dragging his feet childishly in the sand. Pearl came to meet me with her strap of knives secure across her chest, one of the longer blades gripped in her hand. The excited gleam in her eyes gave away her bloodlust… and maybe some other lust, I mentally scoffed as I traced her gaze to where Neveah was carefully cleaning the head of his spear. I tossed my trident impatiently from hand to hand—it was wood-shafted, and therefore a bit top-heavy, but it'd performed nicely so far. Neveah's spear looked like a toothpick next to its steel head, which gave me the slightest foolish satisfaction. It feels good to be in charge.

Without confirmation, I set off into the palms, moving silently through the silky sand and velvety darkness with my weapon clutched carefully at my side. I could hardly detect Pearl's steps directly behind mine, and the guys' slightly louder pace behind her. We make a pretty kick-ass team, I thought silently to myself. One of us might actually win this thing.

Namely, me.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

She didn't give any heads-up—just let the knife whirl from her grasp to be greeted by that wet thud that told us she'd found her target. Pearl darted ahead of me on silent steps to find who she'd downed as the guys spread out to search for others in the area—alliance members, or supplies we could use.

"Who is it, Pearl?" I called in a show of how unafraid we were of being detected.

"I'm not quite sure," her voice came back. "You should see this."

It was a girl, that much was apparent from her small, curled frame. Stick-like hands gripped at one ankle, tousled brown hair falling over her face as she moaned. Pearl mercilessly yanked her weapon from where the girl was so carefully holding; she let out a shriek of agony and descended back into quiet whimpers.

"Which district are you from?" I asked calmly, standing a good foot away from where she huddled. Cool authority licked my tone satisfyingly.

"I-I-_please_!"

Pearl's foot collided with the side of the whimpering girl's head, earning another grating scream.

She knelt to hiss directly into the crying girl's ear, "_Where are you from?_"

"Five! I'm from Five, my partner's dead… no!"

"Pearl, is that really necessary?" I asked in a slightly degrading tone, like a patient mother telling off her dog.

"No," she said mock-thoughtfully. "But it's fun." She aimed another kick at the girl's spine.

Her scream bounced off the palms around us, met by a distant crow of joy that was unmistakably James'. I snapped my eyes shut in time to regain my cool. _Not __Leita. Not Valeria. They're save at home. Watching me. Be strong, Cade._

But suddenly, I wasn't standing over the bent body of a girl from Five. The sand disappeared from between my toes; Pearl faded away… the screams stayed. _I was a twelve-year-old version of myself, huddled against our ratty old couch that smelled like rotten fish, watching my own father smash an empty liquor bottle over my baby sister's head. I clutched my small hand to my painful, bleeding nose, feeling the bend in it that wasn't there before. Leita shrieked and pleaded loudly with the man who's mind was far, far away from our tiny living room in 4… he smacked her to the ground and rounded once more on tiny Valeria. Bloodshot eyes alight with a crazed fire that none of us could ever extinguish… I just sat there, Leita tucked under my arm, hand carefully clutching my broken nose, as the young girl's shrieks of agony filled the house. And I couldn't do anything to stop it. I just had to cling to my sister and… watch…_

"Stop it!"

The arena. The sand. The palms. Pearl's violent knife. The huddled girl. My desperate plea had the slightest hint of hysteria to it—it froze Pearl's knife on its way to the girl's bloody leg.

"What?" Pearlescent snapped in irritation. "Would _you_ rather do the honors, Cal?"

"What's your name," I said blandly, eyes coming back into focus.

"What're you, drunk? I'm Pear—"

"No. Her. What's your name?"

Both girls seemed to be taken by surprise; Pearl glared at me in a way that resented the alliance protecting me from her bloody blades.

"I-Lilia. Lilia Copper."

"You build traps, right?"

Her bloodied face fell. "Yes," she said resignedly.

"Are they any good?"

"I've caught many tributes already—I'm not strong enough to kill them," she whispered.

We locked eyes for a moment—hers pleading, mine deciding—before I turned away. "Help her up," I instructed coolly.

"But Cal—" Pearl protested.

"Help. Her. Up. Welcome to the alliance, Copper."

.:!:.:!:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

"You're _insane_, you know that?" James' hot breath hit my ear, his tone doing little to stifle his anger. "She's tiny! She couldn't even guard!"

"We can teach her," I responded, emotionless. I continued walking at the head of our little group; James on my right shoulder, Pearl a few feet to my left (still fuming), and Neveah following silently, Copper glancing around nervously in his arms.

"She'll turn on us the first night we let her guard—our supplies will be gone when we come back. Hell, she'll probably set up fancy wire to hang and gut us when we return."

"No she won't."

James scoffed. "How can you be so sure? You don't know _everything_, Captain."

"One, she can't even walk. Two, even if she could drag herself out of the site with a pack, she couldn't get far and she'd leave easily followed drag tracks. Three, she knows that means painful death. She's not going anywhere."

I led the way into our site, unsurprised to see Lecha asleep by the pond side. I gave her a kick as I passed. "Good morning, Smoketon. Glad to see your guard wasn't too _taxing_."

She groaned as she sat up. "Does dis 'ean—"

"You're guarding tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day—however long it takes for you to figure out how to stay awake."

Her beady eyes locked on Copper as Neveah sat her on my favorite rock. "Who's—"

"This is Copper. She's joining our alliance. She does traps, remember?"

Lecha nodded vaguely, eyeing Copper like a piece of food.

"Welcome to our humble abode," Neveah mumbled sarcastically as he went to put his spear away.

Copper's eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she took in the pile of packs and the oasis. "You have _water_…"

"Thirsty?" I snatched one of our plastic cups from the sand—we're such slobs, it drives me insane—and washed it out in the cool water before scooping some and returning to Copper. She downed it in two gulps.

"This is how this is going to work," I said, crouching down to get on eye level with the small girl as Lecha went to get her more water, "You're going to build traps for us. And show us where your existing ones are, so we know where to check. You're also going to help guard—that means you stay here while we hunt. I'll stay with you for the first few nights. We brought your wire and tools and pack—" I jerked my chin to where James sat, toeing her beat-up backpack, "so this should work beautifully."

I stood, so she had to look up to meet my gaze. "I'm Cal. I sort of run this ship. That's Neveah, who carried you all the way out here—he's a keeper. The two goons, Lecha Smoketon and James Clickit. They know their way around any weapon that looks intimidating. Lecha's a lazy slob who falls asleep on her guard. And over there, sulking by the water, is Pearlescent. Don't let her looks fool you. She's air-headed."

My allies grunted or nodded their affirmation with each of their introductions, Pearl splashing a wave of water at me that never reached the other side of the pond.

"Do you think you can make this alliance work?" I asked Copper pointedly. "Because if not, I'm afraid we'll have to kill you. In fact, I'm afraid _Pearl_ will have to kill you."

Copper nodded frantically, gaze filled with fear as she regarded Pearl's lithe form. "When," she coughed, before clearing her throat and starting again in her odd Five accent. "When does the alliance break?"

James snorted, Lecha sighed happily, and Pearl scoffed at her question. Neveah sat in silence, as always.

"When we're the last ones here. Or when I say it does." I brushed my sandy hands off on my shorts briefly, eyeing my new ally. "How old are you?" I demanded suddenly, recalling the fact that there's only one 12-year-old in the arena, and I thought it was a boy…

"Thirteen. Almost fourteen."

"Hm."

I was about to say more, but a sudden clash in the wind silenced me. Silenced all of us, actually. Because the hint of salt was gone, replaced by a more bitter, unyielding scent… and a vicious cold that was completely out of place in our tropical paradise. Another swoop of air brought the temperature down even more, and a loud crack filled the air, accompanied by Pearl's scream. I whirled to see the edges of our pond crystallizing… hardening into shards….

"_What the hell?_" James roared above the wind.

The palms stretched towards the ground under the icy blasts, my own dark brown hair obscuring my view….

And then the wind was gone, leaving only frigid, still air in its place. Our breath floated out of our gaping mouths on thin clouds. And one tiny, bright little thing was falling towards me…

I held up my hand, and on my fingertips landed a single, perfect snowflake.

_Oh_.

* * *

**Let the first Gamemaker trap begin!**

Hope you liked- I might even get another chapter up this weekend, if you're lucky. Remember to invest points in your favorite tribute (minus Seed, Copper, the Six guy and any other OC that come up). Each review that mentions the writing or character portrayal earns you two points. At the moment, nobody is in dire need of point-spending... except perhaps Aislin, if you want her to wake up any time soon. Oh, and Suzu has a nasty gash on her wrist, remember? 15 points to each, and they'd be good as new...

I'll get you point updates... soon. PM me if you want to know how many points you have, or how many total points are invested in a certain tribute.

**And reviews are back! YES! Please make use of our wonderful system that has decided to stop hating me!**

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	10. Trigger

**Another 3rd-to-1st person switch.  
And yes, I really did look up 'baize'. (**_Creative name, Writting2StayHalfSane. Kudos._ )

* * *

The heat of the girl's small fire wafted onto my face. It felt amazing—like Adam's gentle touch along my cheek in the morning… what I wouldn't give for that warmth.

I listened to the dry noise her hands made as they rubbed against each other, then her palms reopened to the flames and she emitted a quiet sight of contentment. Jealously raged inside me as I dared to stretch the tiniest bit further from behind the palm trunk I was pressed against. If she hears me, I'm dead. But the snow that encases my frigid toes doesn't look like it's going to stop falling anytime soon, and it's _really_ cold…

The trunk creaked.

The girl's head snapped around, hands reaching instantly for the strips of dry bark resting on the snow beside her. Her wide eyes glanced around frantically, trying to take in every angle of her little camp at once. My heart threatened to give me away... how could she not hear its crazy beat? Trying to breath as silently as possibly, I slid gently back into the evening shadows. _Please let her not see me. Please, please, please… let her think she's hearing things… don't see me, …._

"Who's there?"

_No…_

"I know you're out there. Show yourself!"

Her soft snarl hit the surrounding palms in an almost gentle way… which only made her more frightening. Who is she? Not a Career, that much was apparent by her one measly pack and lack of apparent weapons. And the scabbing gash on her neck—I'd bet she'd run into a few other tributes already. So she isn't from 1, 2, or 4… 3 is dead…5? No, that girl had been much more petite, tiny even. 6?

In an act of complete spontaneity, I stole one more glance around the trunk. Same brown hair, though it's a bit mussed and sand-strewn. Same pale skin, typical of 6's. My mind struggled to connect the snarling threat to the soft-spoken 6 girl from the interviews… but the arena changes people. This girl's no exception.

"Where are you?" she hissed, slowly getting to her feet. "There's only one of you, I can tell… if you show yourself, I won't kill you instantly… Cote's honor."

I didn't know what Cote was, but assumed it was some sort of important 6 symbol as I carefully put my life on the line and emerged from the shadows, crunching conspicuously in the snow. It was one of those moments that you look back on and wonder how you could be so stupid… but in the moment, I don't even know what I was thinking. About the fire, probably. How good the flame's heat would feel on my frigid hands…

She had a heavy coat, but her legs, hands, and feet were just as bare as mine. She spun towards me as soon as the snow snapped beneath my flimsy sandals, baring her strip of bark threateningly. Now that I saw it better, it wasn't even a weapon at all. Just some dry bark. Nothing to be afraid of, Baize. Pull yourself together.

"Where are you from?" she demanded, not lowering her anticlimactic bark.

"Eight," I croaked, voice rusty from disuse.

Her gaze narrowed a bit. "You're the engaged girl, right?"

The reminder was as unwelcome as ever, and I could hardly keep my voice even as I replied. "Yes."

Tears fought behind my eyes, forcing me to blink double-time to fight them.

"Prove it."

I swallowed hard and held up my left hand for her to see. The light from her fire glinted off the smooth bronze surface, highlighting it on my finger. Despite the biting cold, the metal was as warm as it had always been against my skin… my only reminder of who I really am, outside this alternate reality of an arena where it can go from tropical to arctic in a matter of hours…

She studied the ring carefully. "Do you have any weapons?"

"No," I said honestly. And it's not like I could have many deadly tools hidden under my tight tank or tiny shorts.

"Supplies?"

"No-not anymore. My pack was taken by the little boy from Ten."

This seemed to amuse her. "He's the one who's been hopping around the palms, right?"

"Yes." My teeth clashed together almost as quickly as my heart beat against the confines of my chest.

"Alright. Come on." She waved me forward with her bark grudgingly. I didn't hesitate in rushing toward the dancing flames and sighed deeply when their heat hit me.

"That feels _amazing_," I breathed, opening my palms to the fire.

"Just another plus of our arena. This bark is incredible—super fibrous equals super flammable." She knelt beside me on the dry sand that the fire had rid of the constant snow. A few flakes still fell, as if it were about to stop snowing altogether… but it had been like this for hours, taunting us with the looming possibility of the return of heat. I tried not to let it get to me anymore, and instead concentrated on listening to the soft hiss each flake made as it landed in the flames.

"Analyse, by the way," she said off-handedly as she pulled her coat tighter around herself.

"Baize."

"What's a baize?"

"Felt-like fabric… it covers gaming tables and luxury stools…"

"Ah…" She nodded thoughtfully, as if trying to picture my namesake or remember it from the Capitol.

"It's hard for all of us, coming here," she continued, more gently now. "But I think your story takes the cake. Was it a mentor angle idea, or are you really…?"

"I'm really engaged," I answered, trying to keep my tone emotionless.

"I'm so sorry."

We sat in silence, listening to the flakes hiss and the flames spit for a while... just enjoying being able to sit next to another person without worrying about being stabbed.

"I thought I was going to do this by myself. And I can. But maybe an alliance wouldn't kill me…" she mused. Her bright eyes shot up to mine, the unspoken question apparent in her gaze.

"Yes," I sighed. The heat was beginning to thaw my frozen core, gently warding away the ice that had taken root inside me for the past two days. "Allies it is."

"I'm glad you agree."

As I watched the thin wisps of smoke our little fire gave off, a new idea hit me, sprung from archives of watching years of Games. The kids that make the fires are always the easiest kills… "Won't this make us easy to find?"

Her expressive eyes lit up. "Oh, I hope so."

She smiled at my confused look. "This whole place is rigged to go up in flames if we're attacked. It would be especially good if the Careers came around—they have their fancy coats and hats and scarves that would be _kindling_ to bark-fire."

"How…? We get out unharmed, right?"

"Oh, yeah. Between those two palms—it's a break in the fire wall that ignites fifteen seconds after the original blaze."

Everybody knows that 6's are smart, but this was… a whole different league of problem solving. I'm sure she would be able to explain it to me if I asked, though her fancy terminology would be lost on a girl who worked in clothing factories back home.

"Then what happens?"

"Hopefully, the flames will spread east—while we escape west, where I'm ninety-eight percent sure there's a body of salt water."

"Alright…"

"Don't get all worried about it. I know what I'm doing." She seemed perfectly comfortable with the idea of springing a massive forest fire in a jungle of snow… I decided I liked this girl. Opposites attract, I guess.

"How've you been getting along?" she asks as if we were sitting together at dinner and just conducting a polite conversation.

"Horrible. I was starving, and on the brink of a dehydrated death when the snow came. I hope it doesn't make you sick to drink it—"

"Beaver fever."

"What?"

"If you eat too much snow, you get Beaver fever. And get nauseous, unstable, and light-headed. Stop eating the snow."

"Alright… then I just about died of hypothermia. And now's now."

"I think they purposefully gave us all these blankets and jackets and warm supplies. The Gamemakers, I mean. Because they say dying by hypothermia is actually a pretty nice way to go. Painless. You get all warm and fuzzy and just kind of… _go_."

Having accepted the fact that she knew everything, I didn't ask how she came across that bit of information. "You seem to be doing pretty well."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Well enough. My best friend is the bark—it's edible, if you chew it soft. Delicious fire-baked." Analyse jumped to her feet suddenly, insisting on showing me how to strip a trunk of the stringy bark, then how to chew it and bake it. It tasted like dirt, but food's food, and I wasn't about to complain.

And as we stretched out on our backs by the fireside, I realized that I was almost _happy_. In the arena. With a stranger. And no…. Adam…

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes and escaped down my temples as my throat close up. A huge wave of misery smashed down on my chest, knocking any breath out of my lungs and leaving me feeling more alone than ever, despite my ally less then a foot away. Don't think like that. You'll be home in no time. _Don't think like that_.

_But when I closed my stinging eyes, I could only see his smiling face, waiting patiently in the doorway of that tiny house of his, edges of his eyes crinkling playfully as he watches me approach… I run up the walkway, headlong toward the little deck… stretch out my arms with that smile I reserve just for him… and crash, hard, into an invisible barrier. I smash my fists against it, hard, my knuckles bruising as I call out to him… but he just stands there, smiling as ever, waiting patiently for the girl who will never reach him…_

"Baize? Are you… alright?"

Analyse's voice sliced into my consciousness none too gently. My eyes cracked open to the palm-printed white sky of the arena I was trapped in, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

"Fine," I said, sitting up. "How about I take first watch?"

She didn't seem like she liked the idea very much, but agreed willingly enough and stretched back out on the sand. "Don't hesitate to wake me up if you hear or see _anything_, okay?"

I nodded, and watched her eyes close and breath slow to a steady chant of sleep.

And suddenly I was alone again. With no one looking out for me… just Baize.

* * *

**A short one, I know. **

Even so, I'm spoiling you by giving you two chappies in one weekend. Now you have no choice but to love me forever ;). Sorry about any spelling/grammar issues- my current beta is down, leaving me to fend off errors by myself. Which, as you can tell from the previous chapters, is not nearly as good.

And **tell your friends!** Maybe you can't sponsor your own tribute, but your buddy can... _anybody_ can earn points. You can get 2 just from reviewing regarding the writing and/or character portrayal.  
**If you tell a friend about this story, and they _review with your pen name_ mentioned- you get 10 points. **

PM me with any points/sponsor related inquiries. I don't bite.

Read. Review. Invest. Share.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	11. Eavesdropper

**I spoil you guys.**  
**I really do.**  
**But here's the third chapter this weekend- in celebration of almost 100 reviews. Keep 'em coming!  
**_(And Sora is another third-to-first person switch. Keeping it constant.) _

* * *

Breathe. It's okay.

Just… stay silent. I can do this.

But the sight of a pack of Careers directly below me wasn't all that calming. _They can't see me. Unless they look up. Which is entirely possible, but—_

"Where are they?" the pretty girl was screaming at the small girl. It was obvious that the pale brown-haired little girl wasn't from a Career district. She had next to no muscle on her tiny limbs, and her fingers shook as they raked through the snow.

"There're here!" she was gasping, pleading, almost. "They were right here… I don't understand…"

The blond Career girl let out another shriek of frustration and smacked the back of the small girl's head, sending her face into the snow. "Liar! Show us where they are…" she tugged the collar of her fur coat up higher around her neck, eyes still a bit crazed and long blond hair pulled over one shoulder.

"Pearl," another female voice piped up. It must be from the tall girl—authority colored her tone in a way that made the blond step back from the shivering little kid.

"Copper? Are there really any traps here?" she continued calmly. Not kindly, but calmly.

The little girl sniffed loudly. "Yes! I set up three snares right here… ten feet away from that rock's edge." She pointed shakily to the face of stone I was hidden on top of; I quickly drew back from the edge.

"And are they still here?" the authoritive girl asked patiently.

"N-no… I don't understand, I set them right here… _ow_!"

A dull thud made its way to my ears from below, followed by a scolding from the tall girl to the blond girl.

I counted slowly to ten, as the two Career girls conversed, before carefully pulling back to the ledge to look down on them again. The small girl was on her knees now, clutching her head and whimpering quietly. The two older girls hardly gave her any notice, speaking quietly to each other about… traps?

"What. The. _Hell_?"

I nearly fell off the cliff's edge as the masculine roar of pain echoed around the snow-covered palm woods. The Career girls whirled around in the direction of the source, seeming more annoyed than concerned.

"What has he gone and done now…" the blond sighed dramatically and scuffed some snow into the little girl's blood drawn face. My pulse raced as another figure stumbled into their clearing, holding his arm and growling under his breath. There was no mistaking his origins—the bulging muscles and steady build marked him as a Career. His greasy black hair fell into his bloodshot eyes as he gave another yell of pain. A similarly built blond boy slid into the clearing behind him, holding what looked to be some wire and an arrow. He gave the black-haired boy a wide berth of space, skirting the side of the rock cliff to meet the girls.

"What did he do," the tall girl asked in a bored tone—it didn't even seem like a question.

The blond shook his head resignedly. "Got shot. Some sort of toxin was on the head." He held up the arrow in his grasp, and I could hardly make out a bluish glint to the tip. "The archer tried to hit me… lodged this into a palm. It must be the same stuff that's injected in that idiot's bloodstream."

The two girls inspected the arrow carefully, the blond taking it into her own hands and holding it up to the light.

"And what's that?" The tall girl indicated the wire in his grasp.

He considered it. "I don't know. We found it looped around a trunk… one end is snapped."

"A trap," she murmured thoughtfully, inspecting the wire. "A broken one, but a trap nonetheless. Copper?"

The girl in the snow fell silent in response.

The tall girl crouched down to her level. "Is this familiar?" She held up the mangled wire for the small girl to touch.

"It's… no. I never had that grade of copper. It's well-built, though… whoever made it knows what they're doing…"

"She's lying," the blond hissed. "How many trap makers could there be in this arena? It's hers and she's lying because it's broken." She flipped her hair onto the other shoulder. "I say we get it over with and kill her. There's way too many of us in here, anyway—fifteen? There hasn't been a death since the bloodbath!"

"Pearl." The tall girl was exasperated, as if this wasn't the first time they'd gone over this. "She can still build, even if her old ones have been… taken. This other trap maker could have easily taken them down to use the supplies for his own—"

"That would be pointless," the blond snapped. "They were perfectly good traps—"

"Hel-_lo_? Dying, here!" the black-haired boy snarled, still holding his right arm. A thin, feather-tipped shaft of wood protruded from his upper arm, surrounded by steadily pulsing blood that tripped slowly onto the perfect snow below…

The tall girl swung the pack off her pack and stretched it open, retrieving a roll of bandages. "Hold still," she instructed coldly, grasping his forearm with one hand and the end of the arrow and the roll in the other.

"Wha—" he started with a moan, which was abruptly cut off by his ear-splitting roar as the girl quickly yanked the weapon from his flesh. She handed off the bloody arrow to the blond boy and wasted no time in wrapping up the bloodied arm.

"Shouldn't you clean that out?" the other girl pressed.

"Yes," the tall girl intoned, not pausing her work. "If we had anything to clean it out with."

"Um, hello? We're surrounded by snow!"

"Arena snow. We don't know what's in it. It would be stupid to risk putting that in his system."

"What about ointments, or creams… medicines?"

"We don't have any."

This seemed to surprise the blond; she fell silent.

"Let's head back to camp," the tall girl instructed as soon as she sealed the black haired boy's bandage. "We can use some of the pond water to help, maybe."

"Or he could just tough it out and we could continue finding these traps," the blond suggested as if it were the most obvious option.

"We're all going back. Neveah, could you help Copper?"

The blond boy swooped the little girl into his arms, her weight not even registering on his ropey muscles. With one last glance around, the tall girl lead the way back through the palms and disappeared under the wide leaves.

I waited until they were out of earshot to let out all the breath pent up in my chest. So they have the Five girl. The one who's good with traps. This is _not_ good. The Career alliance is too strong on its own, but with that added advantage… maybe staying on top of my little cliff wasn't such a bad idea. The snow was less thick on up here, at about the same level as the tops of the palms—

An arrow was suddenly flying out from nowhere, grazing my stomach and pinning my coat and tank to the sand and snow-covered rock I lay on. I was about to twist and dig it out when a high voice sang out from behind one of the boulders.

"Don't move. Or I'll shoot."

I froze, fingers reaching for the arrow's shaft and eyes darting around the rock's surface for the course of the voice.

"Stay perfectly still. Or you die. Don't…" a slim figure slid out from behind a nearby jagged rock, "…move."

His long bow was loaded with the next arrow; bright eyes trained on me like a predator of its prey. Which was exactly the situation… my pulse quickened. _I can't die now. I haven't even made my first kill—I can't die now._

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice unusually high and song-like. Déjà vu—I recognized him from the chariots. The kid from 1. A Career…. Great. I'm dead.

"Sora Kailer. From Ten."

He considered that for a moment, lurking closer and not lowering his bow. "Did you hear them? The Careers?"

This momentarily confused me—him grouping the Careers separate from himself—but I was quick to reply. "Yes. Almost all of it."

"What do they want with that little girl? Where's she from?"

My mouth and eyes were the only things I dared to move. "She's the kid from Five who builds traps."

Realization colored his expression. "Oh… Cal did mention her…" he muttered to himself.

"You're—" I dared to pipe up, "—not… with them?"

He laughed shrilly, venom spurring the sound. "No. Ditched them at the Cornucopia, the idiots. And I've done much better without them. In my own alliance. Well…" he trailed off, seeming uncertain, before regaining his confidence and pulling the string of his bow back further.

"Thank you," he smirked, "for the information. You really could be helpful to me—thing is, I sort of suck at alliances. The fool from Eleven figured that out pretty quick."

I did not squeeze my eyes shut. I concentrated hard on keeping them open and staring defiantly into my killer's gaze… at least I can die with dignity…

The arrow whistled past my ear.

And I was taken completely by surprise when the blond boy _laughed_. "We meet again, redhead?"

_ What?_

"I can hear you, you know," the archer continued, now swooping his bow to try and cover the whole clearing. "Where are you hiding this time…?"

The slightest shuffle of movement behind a boulder. His arrow skidded along the side of it, off into nowhere. His venomous grin turned quickly sour as he glanced around.

"Where are you, cow boy? Come out!"

My killer being nicely distracted with something I should probably be afraid of, I worked at the arrow pinning me down, trying to wiggle it away from the stone. It was coming free agonizingly slow…

Another arrow flew into the palm wood, hitting nothing but waxy palm leaves on its way. The blond kid snarled.

"You must be sad about leaving the rest of your pack."

This was a new voice, plainly from a male, though it had the lilting pitch of a young one…

"Glad to be rid of them!" my killer calls back, letting another arrow fly in the direction of the voice.

"That one was almost within ten feet. Bravo."

Another arrow let loose.

"But don't you miss your fellow goons?" the taunting young voice called from a completely different side of the clearing. The blond boy whirled around, bow swinging crazily. I worked harder at my arrow… almost there…

"Are you pining for that Eleven boy yet?" the voice continued, succeeding in enraging the archer further. "You should know he has a girlfriend. Well, almost."

Yet another arrow flew in the general direction of this voice.

"Show yourself!" the blond boy called, careful not to be too loud. His cheeks were flushed with anger, fire dancing dangerously behind his gaze…

"I don't think he'd go for you, anyway. You and him aren't really on the same _ship_, if you know what I mean."

"Come out!"

"Not playing for the same _team_."

"Don't be a coward!"

"Not really on the same wavelength. You see, he likes a _girl_—"

"Where _are_ you?"

And suddenly our little plateau fell silent. Then the voice again, softer.

"Right… behind you."

The blond kid didn't have time to turn around before the blur of red hair was on him. A glint of metal in the icy air—and he crumpled to his knees, blood coursing down his front.

A cannon confirmed the small redheaded boy's success.

There was no mistaking who it was. How many other freckly redhead twelve-year-olds where there in this arena? He carefully wiped his tiny blade clean on his shorts before inspecting the slit he'd achieved in the 1 boy's throat. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he turned the guy's face down into the snow and fished the bow out from underneath him.

My breathing sounded like sandpaper grinding together—he must've noticed me. But he didn't acknowledge my existence until he was satisfied with his new bow, quiver, and one sole arrow.

"Looks like you're in a bit of a pickle," he said blandly, not raising his gaze from the lithe weapon in his grasp.

"Yeah," I coughed, feeling supremely stupid.

"See, Sora, I feel like I should shoot you," he confessed thoughtfully, still not looking at me. "I promise it wouldn't hurt. I know how to kill in one shot… you wouldn't feel a thing."

He let the silence sit for a moment. Just him and his weapon, me pinned to the ground, and the body facedown in the snow.

"But," he continued, "I dunno. It feels weird, 'cause we're both from Ten." He sighed heavily, as if the whole world rested on his narrow shoulders. His sigh floated away with the gentle breeze, eventually disappearing into the air.

"If I don't win, I want you to. Then Rose can have Parcel Day… and Ten needs the extra food. So I won't kill you personally."

I opened my mouth to thank him, but he wasn't done.

"This is _not_ an alliance. I'm only saying I won't kill you—I'm not going to protect or help you _at all_. Understand?"

I nod feverishly.

"For instance, I'm not going to get you unstuck there." He gestured to my predicament with his bow. "You can manage."

"Thank you. I won't be killing you, either. That is, if hell freezes over and I have the opportunity."

A small smile touched his lips before he slung the bow onto his back. "Have a nice life, Sora. Or death."

"To you, too. Make Ten proud."

He disappeared into the palms, movements hardly traceable.

With a heavy sigh and one last yank, I realized the arrow isn't going anywhere anytime soon. And I'm way too close to that body—no way the hovercraft will get him while I'm still stuck.

So that leaves me trapped on top of a rock ledge with a dead body, just waiting for someone to find me and shoot me like a sitting duck.

Only one thing to do now—I stuck a knowing grin to my lips and toyed with the feathers of the arrow as if I had everything completely under control.

Let the cameras eat _that_ up.

* * *

**The sky lights up with the Capitol symbol, and the anthem greets the ears of the remaining tributes. Only one picture tonight.**  
**Seed Goodmen, District 1.**

**Dead.**

A/N:  
And... we've been inside the head of every one of our focus tributes. Who's worthy of your points?

Arrett made his first kill- snaps for him. You'd be so much happier about it if you had points invested in him, wouldn't you? You would have earned half as many points again, to use wherever you'd like.  
Speaking of points and deaths, I realize that Neveah and Callista have each already had a kill. Neveah has two, actually- I never credited the Cornucopia (sorry!). So if you have points invested in Cal, you've just earned half as much back. If you've invested points in Neveah, you get just that amount back (remember, the points you have invested are always there. You can't take away but you can always add).

BAD NEWS:  
The next chapter will bring about our first death. _Actual_ death- someone will be dearly missed. Here's how I'm going to pick who the unlucky winner is:  
Simply drawn out of a hat. Tributes with sponsors go in once. Tributes without sponsors go in twice. The tribute with the most sponsor points invested in him/her doesn't go in at all.

I'm not going to tell you who has sponsors and who doesn't, but I would highly recommend investing _something_ in _someone_. Whoever you have a gut feeling for (can't be your own tribute, if you submitted one), or maybe think has a real chance of winning this thing... or maybe you just like them.  
I'm drawing tomorrow evening- **PM me with any point investments or questions before then.** You could be the difference between their name going in once or twice... Or maybe even not at all.  
If you have points invested in the unlucky tribute who dies- too bad. _Poof_ goes your points... you don't get them back.

ALSO:  
If you're in need of points... I'm going to start posting a question at the end of every chapter. These will be trivia from the real HG series, all three books (hopefully no Mockingjay spoilers) or questions about our Fic. PM me with your answer- the first person to get it correctly gets 10 points. Everyone else to answer correctly gets 3.

**This week's question: **  
(level: _easy_)  
_In Let Your Games Begin... Who said: **"You won't want that."**_

PM me your answer. It's in one of the previous chapters... somewhere...

Read. Review. Invest. Share.  
Sirr.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	12. Battlefield

**Thank you thank you thank you to Writting2StayHalfSane, my new Beta. Round of applause for her-seriously. She's the reason this is posted so soon, and typo-less. Enjoy!**

******Our first death. Well, first death that _matters_. Here goes.**  


* * *

Not an animal. Who am I kidding—there aren't any animals here. Guess that's just wishful thinking. Just me trying to convince myself that the frustrated thrashing sounds aren't coming from a tribute.

But of course they are. Trying to keep my breathing as shallow and silent as possible, I quietly crunch closer to the noise, curiosity getting the better of me as it usually does. This weakness will probably get the best of me one day… but I just can't _walk away_ from something this interesting. And anyway, whoever it is sounds pretty trapped, making him an easy kill.

I watch my breath float away from my parted lips and off into the frigid air, suddenly hyper-aware of how cold I am. The invisible wind bites painfully at my fingertips and exposed toes, reddening my cheeks and ears and stinging my bare arms…

_ Stop it. _

Another frustrated snarl emits from the form that the palms barely conceal from my view. Now that I listen harder, I realize the noises are distinctly feminine—I can match the scratching sounds to clawing fingernails, and the huffs of anger to a girl's tongue… I wonder who it is. Now I _have_ to find out. And kill her, too, if the occasion arises.

"No _way_."

I freeze, muscles tightening into immediate fight-or-flight mode. Because this was a new voice, distinctly male. And dangerously close.

"Let me go, you little—"

"Name calling," the hoarse voice interrupts, patronizingly slow, "is not nice."

I squeeze my eyes shut and let my mind grapple aimlessly for faces to match the voices. Girls, girls… who's left? Five, I think. And Six. And Eight. And Nine, Ten, Twel—

"Let me freakin'—_ouch_!" She gasps a bit, then snarls. I slide closer.

"Are you just going to _sit_ there?" she demands after a moment of snow-scuffing.

"No," the guy answers, disinterest clouding his tone. "I'm going to kill you. I just need to find my knife…"

Pulse quickening, I step even closer. Each of my footsteps sound like explosions to me, as the snow crunches under my weight. Surely they'd—he'd—hear me any second. And knife me before he finishes her off. I take refuge in the scattered shadows of the palms, leaning up against a rough trunk and daring a peak around the edge.

She can see me; that much I know from the angle in which she is strung up. Though hung from her wrists to a palm stem high above, she somehow manages to keep the air of arrogance that circulates people like her. Her thin face is somehow still beautiful, though equally as nasty, and doubly recognizable. All Ones are. He is watching her, his back facing to where I hide. But his pacing gives him away—the steady step-trip, step-trip of his movements' trigger memories from the Training Center. He's the one from Three. With the—

I only catch half of his face, but half is enough to display the puckered scar that runs from hairline to jaw. And the milky blue eye with shrunken pupil, the slightly upturned edge of his lips, twisted into a permanently sour smile.

"They'll come for me!" the One girl spits, yanking at the scores of wires that encase her red and bloodied wrists. She revolves slowly, feet thrashing about two feet off the ground as the Three boy settles against a new palm and admires his handiwork.

I note the fact that he is bare-shouldered and barefoot. He doesn't have any supplies? Or was robbed, like me? Maybe he'd had an unsuccessful alliance, leading to thievery and disloyalty… Been there, done that. Good thing is, mine's dead.

Is it really, really bad that I was happy to see Seed's face in the sky? I don't _really_ think so… These are the Hunger Games—people die. It's what we're here for… No. I'm not here to die, unlike the tributes I listen to. I'm here to win.

"They'll come!" she threatens again as she spins slowly. Her voice rises to a scream. "Neveah! Cal! Lecha! James… _help_! Come and _get me!_ I'm with that _freak_ from Three—"

Looks like he's found his blade after all, because the bright afternoon light glints sharply off the clean blade in his grasp. The One girl's screams break off as soon as he's held it high enough for her bright blue eyes to catch sight of.

And that's just about when the chaos explodes.

Two muscular guys—clearly Careers, not only from their builds but also the packs slung from their shoulders and fur coats they wear—are suddenly joining the two in the clearing, having emerged from the shadows across from where I hide. The black-haired one is tall enough to stretch and start cutting at the wires hoisting the girl up; the blond chucks a spear in the Three boy's direction. The scarred kid narrowly misses the weapon, darting out of its way with surprising agility. His own blade doesn't leave his pale hands as he rushes forward, raising it in a clear death strike to the black-haired boy's back—

Then _another_ tribute joins the party. Her movements are quick and concise, but I recognize her—the Nine girl who'd gone after Seed. A dread settles in my gut as the chances of someone finding me became greater and greater… I silently watch Nine knock Blond Career over with a significant running leap, pinning him on his stomach only briefly enough to cut the pack from his back and make a run for it.

And impulse—sudden, shocking, impulse—powers my feet to sprint after her, carefully skirting the clearing with the Careers and Three boy. Her tracks are easily traceable and fresh in this ever-falling snow, and lucky for me, my legs are long. I can see her long black hair swinging behind her as she runs, and the shock of a neon pack in her grasp. Thinking of the three I'd seen at her camp, more determination forces my strides to be longer.

A cannon shot echoes around the palms, which only helps my adrenaline rush. Somebody in the clearing is dead. No doubt the Three boy—what with him against three Careers.

I lock my eyes back on my very alive, moving target. She's quick, her feet darting through the snow just as quickly as if it were grass. Just as I'm getting used to the idea of never catching her, luck shows his rare face again. She trips. Over what, it's impossible to tell under all the snow, but she's suddenly sprawled in it, pack still tight in her grip. I'm upon her in seconds, giving her no time to scramble back to her feet. A sharp cry of pain escapes her lips as my knees meet her shoulders, and slam her chest back to the snow.

_ Kill her. Kill her now._

I still have that long knife. I keep it in the waist of my shorts; the blood is still caked on it from when its previous owner had slashed so many at the Cornucopia. I try to ignore the déjà vu as she struggles beneath my weight. No sick signature this time, I promise myself. Just a clean, fast death.

I lower the blade to the nape of her neck, brushing aside her hair. It can't be all that hard—just dig deep and slice, right? Right.

"She's alive."

It takes me a moment to realize the cough of a statement had come from my prisoner. "Who?"

"You know who," she wheezes. "She's alive, but she's passed out from blood loss. We're not keeping her hostage. She's going to wake up."

"I—" Stay on task. She's _trying_ to distract you. "That's not possible. You die from extreme blood loss—and it was still bleeding when I visited your camp. You're lying."

I press my blade harder against her skin… see the beads of blood…

And bitterness fills my mouth. What kind of person am I? _These are the Games_. How can I murder her ally? _It's a kill, not a murder. A proud success, not a shameful wrongdoing. _I…

I'm just here for the pack.

With one quick, sharp movement**, **I flip my knife around and bash her temple with the handle, successfully knocking her unconscious. In that moment of silence, I notice how ragged my breath is from running, and how the cold stings my lungs and numbs my feet. I stand and consider the girl for a moment—should I just leave her?—before deciding she's safe enough if I move her to a less conspicuous place. She's small enough… I carefully lift her and walk a couple of feet to conceal her beneath the shadows of a nearby trunk. Taking a few steps back, I check my work carefully and do my best to hide my prints leading to her hiding place. That attempt lasts for about thirty seconds, until I realize I can't replicate freshly fallen snow.

But her pack—her lovely, bulky pack— has a coat in its canvas-y wonder. I waste no time in slipping it on over my bare arms and shoulders, delightedly finding the fur lining to the wool garment. Instantly, the cold begins ebbing away. And… I reopen the pack and dig to find a pair of boots. The furry kind, with drawstring tops.

At least for the moment… life is _good_.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

There's only so long you can be perfectly content in the arena. And that annoying curiosity is riding up again and spurring my newly booted feet back to the clearing. Just to see how things had played out.

Following my tracks back to it is easy; forcing myself to actually walk into the prior battlefield is harder. The Careers are long gone, having left only a few drops of blood and a clearing of upturned snow in their wake. The wire trap hangs limply in the middle of the arena, eerily similar to the gallows behind the prison back in Eleven. I tread slowly around it, tracing the steps of the tributes that had been here less than an hour ago. A side-step here, a dive there. Someone slipped here. Someone lunged, someone was—

Stabbed.

The body takes me completely by surprise, sending my steps darting back a ways before the curiosity drives me right back. More surprise when I realize the corpse is that of a girl—and not the blond that the Three boy had captured, but a leathery-skinned, muscular, broad-shouldered type. I don't recognize her but am willing to bet she was a Career. What a surprise. Careers don't normally go down until _at least_ the final ten. How many of us are left? Fifteen? Sixteen?

I childishly scuff a spray of snow onto her paled face, letting any cameras that are trained on me to absorb my dislike for the Careers.

"Loooosssss…."

I freeze. _I'm not alone_, I realize with a jab of fear. My hand flies to my knife as I risk turning slowly around to meet the source of the hoarse rasp. I don't see him at first, having looked up to where his head would be if he were standing. Slowly, my gaze drops to the snow. The red-stained snow. Where he kneels, hands useless at his sides.

His face tilts up to my height, displaying the sharp contrast between his pale skin and reddened scar. His uneven eyes meet mine… but are focused on something else…

From his gut protrudes a knife. A long one, like mine, buried almost up to the hilt in this bloodied boy. By the look of the cuts and developing bruises on his face, the Careers hadn't just stabbed him immediately, either.

A pang of pity strikes my chest as his malformed lips mouthed one word, "_Help_."

So I carefully kneel in the snow beside him and gently press his shoulders back until he is lying flat-out, surrounded by stains of his own blood. His eyes drearily watch as I wipe off my knife—one of his hands lifts a few inches, as if he could stop me, then falls back into the ice. Already his gaze is focused on something much farther than my weapon… something nicer, too, probably…

I position my knife.

A smile twists his mouth one last time.

I take a grating breath.

"Lucy?" The croak comes from somewhere in his throat.

"No," I find myself answering. "Sparrow."

"_Lucy_…"

His odd smile doesn't fade as my blade finally does its job.

"_I'm coming_…"

The cannon finalizes his last words.

* * *

**Pictures in the sky. Two. A grimacing Two girl. And a black-haired Three boy. The scarred scowl that occupied those features right up to his last moments is represented in his flickering image.**

**Lecha Smoketon, District 2**  
**Charles Hunter, District 3**

**Dead.**

A/N:

Poor Charles- reaped for the second time. Guess he doesn't have to worry about that anymore... and he has Lucy now.  
Thank you, MadMan95, for the awesome character. I'm so sorry he had to leave so soon, but it was a random draw. You should know that he had his name in only once, and he had sponsor points invested in him.  
It was Aislin whose name was completely safe from this draw.

The answer to last week's trivia question is: **Jake Herring, Analyse's friend back in District 6. He was critiquing her candle choice, in chapter 3.**

**This week's trivia question:  
**(_level:_ hard)**  
**In _Mockingjay_ by Suzanne Collins, who said:**_ "A tribute to your tributes, as it were."_  
**Take a guess and PM me your answer; first correct answer gets 15 points, any other correct answer gets 8.

**Read. Review. Invest. Share.  
Sirr.**

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.  
Topsy **


	13. Allies

I have the best beta ever- she got this done in one night. Writting2StayHalfSane is the one to thank here. _(Uppy updates at bottom)_

Anyway. A bit of a lighter chappie. Enjoy.

* * *

It must've been the warmth that woke me. I drew from unconsciousness with only the dreary sense of heat on my skin. With a spine-racking shiver, I snapped my eyes open... to find myself horizontal. Staring out along the snow-covered ground, I watched rays of pure sunlight shoot through the leaves overhead and sparkle off the wet snow.

So the sun was back. I tried to stifle the small, animal-like cry of joy I emitted as I sat up, but a small squeak still escaped. I slapped my hand over my mouth, scanning the sparkling area around me, and let out a silent sigh when nobody jumped out at me. Just me. In the slush. And beautiful sunshine. Now I guessed the question was... where exactly was I? And how did I get there?

I rubbed my temples gently for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut in an act of concentration. I remembered... getting a knife in my wrist... I flexed it to feel the tight scabs, confirming the fact. Then I had left the camp, after that One boy who took Raymond's arrows... the blond. I lost his trail when he scaled a rock ledge in the far west, and had to camp that night alone. His face was in the sky the next night, so I started back to camp where Aislin was unconscious and Raymond was impatient. And an idiot. But on the way... I'd heard voices from a clearing. And found some of the Careers and the Three boy. I had a plan... what was it? What-oh. I stole a Career pack. Successfully, I think. But then there was the Eleven boy, the one who'd charged our camp and knifed me, and he chased me... What happened, what happened, what happened?

I scuffed the slush with my sandal-ed toe, sending a wet spray of watery ice flying a few feet. He'd caught me. He must've, because my pack's gone. But why didn't he kill me? I glanced down at myself, noting that my right side was soaked from lying in the slush but I was not injured. With a ridiculous series of hops and shakes, I tested each of my limbs and stretched my torso... to find everything in perfect order. A slight headache, probably from where he'd knocked me unconscious, but no other pain. Hm. What a weird guy.

And, I thought as I started following his tracks back to the clearing, I bet I know where he's headed right now.

It was tricky to pick my tracks out of the scuffle, but once I did I immediately began to recognize my surroundings. The arrangement of the palms became familiar, especially with the snow melting off them, and my tracks were the only trail guiding me back to camp. They'll still be there, of course. Once I get there, they'll be waiting. And they'll congratulate me on being alive. But what if they aren't... I brushed the thought away and continued sloshing through the slush, which now consisted of a grainy sand/ice mixture that numbed my toes and rubbed away the calluses I'd obtained from my strappy footwear. I sighed heavily, letting the sun probe warmth into my numb toes and thaw my lungs. This was a turn for the better.

Their voices alerted me of my approach before I actually saw them.

"What're you doing here?"

"Making peace. Seeking a stronger alliance-"

"Stronger alliance my-"

"Sh!"

Both guys' voices fell silent. I tried not to giggle as I came closer, picturing the 11 boy and Raymond in each other's faces while Aislin lay as unresponsive as always...

"I'd agree to any terms you have."

"We have plenty without you."

"I could be a valuable asset-"

"Or a backstabbing traitor."

"I-"

"I think we should let him join," I piped up, slipping from the wet shadows and into our little camp. They stood similarly to how I'd pictured them; Raymond was leaning forward onto the balls of his feet and Eleven had a cautious hand floating in the area of the knife at his waist. A quick glance told me Aislin hadn't moved from her floppy position on the palm leaves.

"What? _Why_?" Raymond demanded.

"Because I'm alive," I replied shortly, slipping the knives out from within my coat and tossing them to the sand at Eleven's feet.

Raymond rolled his eyes. "Yes. Yay. What a pity it would be to lose you. But-"

"He had the chance to kill me. And didn't."

Raymond's scruffy jaw was frozen for a moment of surprise as he measured Eleven up again. "That doesn't mean he won't kill us now."

"I don't know," I mused, turning to our potential ally. "Would you kill us first chance you got?"

"No," he answered quickly. "Not if we were in an agreed alliance. And you two are with her, right?" He nodded to Aislin.

"Yeah," Raymond growled, as if he regretted the fact.

"Then what are your alliance terms?"

"We don't hurt, kill, betray or ditch one another. We do everything in our power to protect one another-our ally's life is just as important as our's. Until the Final Eight, when we will peacefully shake hands and split to separate ways, alliance broken," I prattled off.

Eleven nodded thoughtfully. "Alright," he said brightly. "Who do I shake?"

I glanced to Raymond, who was busy glaring at our new ally with a hatred that was lost on him, before offering my hand to seal the deal. Eleven gave me an earnest look as his hand grasped mine-a sort of unspoken apology for almost killing me-before turning to Raymond.

"Sorry, Six," he said bluntly, forcing to keep his tone positive. "I didn't really mean to cut up your face, but it doesn't actually look that bad now. Sort of intimidating, actually."

A tense moment hung between them as neither outwardly expressed the hatred for the other. Then the Eleven again. "I'm Sparrow Kingston, by the way. Of District Eleven."

"Hm."

I elbowed Raymond's ribs.

"Raymond," he coughed grudgingly. "Six."

"And I'm Suzu, from Nine. You apparently know Aislin."

He nodded in a sort of mournful way. "Consider the four of us an alliance."

And that's when the glint of silver caught my eye. My surprise must've registered on my face, too, because both boys immediately twisted their heads around to follow my line of sight. We watched in silence as the small silver parachute and its little white box swooped down onto the sand next to Aislin's head, too stunned to speak. Sparrow was the first to register surprise into movement; he bent down to pick up the tidy white carton and deflated chute.

"Who's it for?" Ray pressed in annoyance as Sparrow just stared at it.

"I think... I think it's for her."

It took exactly two more seconds of staring for him to recollect himself and start prying open the card stock box. A note slipped out in the process, flitting to the sand and totally unobserved by Sparrow.

I knelt to retrieve it. "It says," I announced, unfolding the fancy Capitol paper carefully, "Take care. From ECSSDS."

Sparrow let out a heavy sigh of relief and held up a medical syringe, full of clear liquid that was laced with an odd bluish ribbon of color. "Thank you," he smiled to the sky. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

In two fluid movements, he was on the ground at Aislin's side, and the needle was piercing her upper arm.

"That's strange," I murmured thoughtfully, considering the fancy note in my hand. "There's no District. And it's not signed from the Capitol. Who would...?"

"Who... cares..." Sparrow replied slowly as he pressed the end of the syringe, distributing the liquid into her blood stream. "They don't need a district to be a saint."

"Geeze... you _are_ crazy for her," Raymond intoned quietly.

Sparrow hesitated a moment too long in answering. "No-I-really, it should have been your reaction, too, being her ally."

A smirk slowly bloomed on Ray's features as he settled against a damp palm trunk. "Oh? It's not like her sunny personality is going to win me over. And yeah, she's hot, but not like that One girl, or even the chick from Six. So tell me, _ally_, what _exactly_ do you see in her?"

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled, carefully sitting up Aislin's unresponsive form.

The thickening light and darkening shadows were a sharp reminder of the sunset that was about to occur- which, more importantly, meant dinner for us. "Who wants food?" I asked brightly in a pointed attempt to change the topic.

"Me," Ray was quick to answer, joining me by our small pile of packs to rummage for edible remains.

"Grab me something, will you?" Sparrow called from the ground. Ray's look of pure loathing forced a feeble explanation. "A bit busy here."

I sliced one of our apples in half and took a huge bite out of one piece before setting the other in the sand by Sparrow's hand. He glanced up from his work of propping Aislin up against his shoulder just long enough to toss a "thanks" at me.

Soon enough, we sat in a sort of circle on the palm leaves in the reddening light; Sparrow trying to get water down Aislin's still-unconscious throat; Raymond picking darkly at his shorts; and me, just enjoying the warmth that settled in the air around us and promised a night without blankets and mittens.

"Strange how fast this snow melted," Sparrow commented quietly as he gave up with the water jug.

I nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the colors in the sky.

"When it freezes over in Eleven, we can't work for weeks. Everything dies. It's the worst time of the year... I hate working in the greenhouses; they're so claustrophobic."

"It doesn't snow all that much in Nine," I offered quietly, trying to feed his conversation just enough to keep it alive... it was nice to have a calm, smooth voice filling our little clearing. As apposed to Raymond's frustrated growls and my groans of despair with my situation.

"Really? Sort of ironic that Eleven should get so much snow, and we're the ones who need it least. Doesn't really work with our industry very well... in a nation where every single industrial detail is planned out so carefully, I personally find that odd. You can't fix our weather, Capitol?" He chuckled darkly to himself. "You can't feed our hungry children? You can't get medicine to our ill and dying? Shocker, Capitol, really. I thought you could do everything... at least, that's what you've been pedaling to us for all these years."

What was he doing? These are dangerous waters, dangerous enough to threaten all of our lives in this alliance. I shot him my best warning glance, which forced him to momentary silence.

It was Aislin who broke it.

"Wassa... whoossseerrr?"

Sparrow's attention was caught; he looked down at the top of her head with the same expression that he'd watched the parachute fall.

"Who..." she yawned hugely, stretching out her arms in a movement that nearly slapped Sparrow's nose. One of her outstretched arms brushed his damp, feather-like hair, and she froze, eyes still shut.

"Suzu?" she croaked before clearing her throat and carefully feeling around the top of an amused-looking Sparrow's head.

"Yeah?" I answered, hardly stifling the rising laughter in my throat.

"Isn't... 'snot Raymond?" She patted around Sparrow's temple then, exploring his jaw before her eyelids flickered open. She caught sight of me, across from her, first. "Why'm I leaning on Raymond?" she inquired, confused, as her gaze slid slowly over our camp. When she caught sight of Ray leaning against a palm with a hardly concealed smirk, she lurched away from Sparrow with the intensity of an electric shock. "Why is he here?" she demanded, staggering to the nearest trunk and leaning against it heavily.

Ray guffawed loudly at her disheveled and bewildered expression as she slowly regained her balance. "He's joined the alliance," he informed her smugly. Apparently, letting Sparrow into our group was worth the sight of Aislin tottering against a trunk with unbridled fury in her gaze.

"No-no, that's not possible," she informed us.

"He agreed to our terms and shook on it," I said matter-of-factly. "He's as in as you or me."

"But he's-oh, of all people, Suzu!"

Sparrow got to his feet and stretched before ruffling his hair. "C'mon, it's not that long, is it? You thought it was _hers_?" he smirked at Aislin across the clearing before bending to retrieve the empty syringe and gift box.

"Party of four," I said in an attempt to shift the hostile mood. "And now we have as many as the Careers do. More, if you don't count the Five girl."

"The Five girl's with the Careers?" Aislin asked, voice rising another octave. I nodded slowly, and she kicked the sand with the harsh fire she'd been lacking for the past week.

"You should sit down..." Sparrow suddenly suggested, squinting at a small bottle in his grasp.

"Since when can you tell me what to do? I-"

"No, really, you'll probably just pass out again if you do too much too fast."

She glared at him for a moment before sliding down against the palm trunk to sit in that exact spot, as far away from Sparrow as the clearing allowed. "Fine. But not because you told me to."

He shrugged and continued to read the tiny label on the bottle.

"What _is_ that?" I finally asked.

"It's for her-to take the edge off the pain."

"The pain?" Aislin scoffed from her seat on the ground. "I feel fine. Shoulder is-" she rolled it testily before coming to a tight freeze. With a hiss of pain, she lowered it back to the way it was. "-fine. Just peachy."

Sparrow raised his eyebrows. "You're supposed to take three drops-three _drops_!-of this every day for the next week."

"Glitchy much?" she mumbled. "I thought Capitol medicines could cure you instantly. Whatever you stabbed me with should've fixed me-"

"We don't actually... know if it's Capitol medicine," I said cautiously.

"Then it's from Nine?"

"Possibly..."

She took a huge sigh of exasperation. "You needled me with medicine and _you don't even know what it is_?"

"It was definitely from a sponsor," Sparrow piped up defensively. "And sponsors can't send poison or incorrectly prescribed medicine to their tributes. It's against the rules. And it's only three drops a day." He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand and muttered something.

"What?" My and Aislin's voices demanded simultaneously.

"Minor side effects. Nothing to worry about-"

"_Side effects?_" Aislin looked like she could just about strangle Sparrow right there, alliance or no.

"Headaches, dizziness, confusion, light-headedness... hallucinations..."

"Hallucinations?"

"It's only three drops!" Sparrow protested, holding up his hands in a show of surrender. Aislin marched across the clearing to scowl up at him.

"Give. Me. My. Medicine."

She plucked the tiny bottle from his grasp easily and squinted at the tiny label before glaring at him again. Without warning, her hand shot up and struck his cheek with all the momentum of her arm; the sharp noise echoed around the palms and left us silent for a moment as Sparrow clenched his jaw and squinted his eyes shut. His cheek was already pinkening, jaw slightly puffy.

"That's for..." Aislin fished for the right words as his eyes slid slowly open and he let himself rub the raw skin. He raised his eyebrows as she fumbled. "For... being an idiot!"

She marched off to the pack pile and pointedly ignored him as she rummaged for food.

Ray glanced at Sparrow disbelievingly. "Like I said, what do you _see_ in her?"

"Like I said, doesn't matter," he shot back hotly.

"You're insane," Ray chuckled. "You... are.. _insane_."

Sparrow busied his hands with the water jug. "Never claimed otherwise."

* * *

**Hope you liked. Review?**

**Also, I am SO sorry to everyone... because my computer has crashed, and taken all my point tallies with it.**  
I would be ever so grateful if you could PM me with the latest point count I've given you... add 2 for every review you've posted since then, 3 if you answered the first trivia question correctly, 8 if you answered the second correctly...if I have specified an amount in a PM, that's what you need to take into consideration... This is sort of an Honor System deal. Thank you everyone, and I'm _so_ sorry.

Answer to the last trivia question:  
Plutarch said "A tribute to your tributes, as it were" in Mockingjay.

New trivia question:  
(_level:_ harder)  
In the _Hunger Games_ Trilogy by Suzanne Collins, who said, **"Spring's in the air today. You ought to get out." **  
Don't bother asking which book it's in. I'm not telling.  
**Please PM me your answer. Do not review with it. PM. Understand?**  
First correct answer gets 15 points, all other correct answers get 8.

**Calling all HG authors: **I'm looking for a **guest author** for an upcoming chapter. It won't be the next one, but perhaps the one after that...  
Rules:  
1. Your chapter must be in the first person of Analyse, and include (in any order): a run-in with Sora. Baize laughing. Lilia Copper's death. Disappointment. The line, "My map must be out of date." It must _not_ include: Arrett or the Careers (Copper excluded).  
2. Your chapter must be _at least_ 2,000 words long, and thoroughly proof-read. I won't kill you for a couple typos, but lack of any formatting or grammar will have you disqualified.  
3. Try to stay as in character as possible. If you're really struggling, I can PM you some notes on personalities.  
4. DocX or possibly email me your chapter when it's done. (PM me if you'd like to email)  
5. Deadline is **Monday, October 18**.  
Of the submissions, I'll choose the one I think fits best in our story, and will post it as soon as I can. The grand prize is the posting of your chapter, and one free gift to the tribute of your choice. The second place prize is 20 points. And the third place prize is... the fun of writing it.

**PM me with questions or requests. Happy writing!**

Read. Review. Invest. Share.

Sirr.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	14. Don't Push It

**Incredible beta... I adore my readers... I don't own HG... Rated T for lots 'o stuff...**  
**Anything else?**  
**Oh, yeah.**  
**Enjoy.**

* * *

"Why... _what_ happened?" Cal squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing her temples methodically.

"We raided his little camp, like you said. And got Pearl back," James jerked his chin in her vague direction. She just tossed her hair and went back to pouting. "And killed Three. The one who's been making all these traps. We did exactly what you told us to." He crossed his thick arms defiantly over his broad chest, trying to look intimidating. His threatening glare was lost on Cal's flaming composure.

"I did not _tell_ you to get Lecha _killed_!"

He shrugged. "'Snot like she actually _did_ anything around here."

"She... didn't... _do_ anything? Is that what you think?" her pitch cracked up another octave. "That you don't _do_ anything? That Neveah doesn't _do_ anything? Hell, that _Copper_ doesn't do anything?"

His huge mouth opened to appose. She didn't give him the air.

"Of course we do things! We're each essential to make this alliance work. You're brawn. Neveah's somewhat more valuable than you. Pearl's speed. Copper's work. And Lecha was our only guard, keeping the only steady water supply as our's!"

_They argue like a married couple_, I thought bitterly as I listened to their rallying voices. With a sigh, I settled back against the smooth rock's surface, feeling its warmth soak through my thin tank and onto my skin. At least the sun was back. It sure beat the snow. I ran my wool coat over my hands, sliding it from palm to palm systematically as I considered the hardy fabric. It could be used for something else, I mused. A cot? Or maybe we could make a better pack out of it-the neon yellow ones tended to grab the eye. This dark grey material wouldn't be nearly as conspicuous...

"Neveah can guard. He'd be good at that." James tossed his overgrown black mane out of his eyes arrogantly.

"Really? You want me to leave my most valuable ally _here_?"

"Your most valuable ally? Ouch, that hurts." He put a hand over his heart and pouted in mock-hurt.

"Yes. He has strength _and_ brain activity. Rare combination, that."

"Well if _I_ had to choose," Pearl piped up from the pond side. "I would leave the little one here. She can guard just as well as Nev or James. _Better_ than James, actually." She scowled at James' broad back.

Nev? Another nickname? I took a silent sigh and ignored Pearl's batting eyes. Nev is okay. Better than Nevie. Or Vay-Vay. _That_ was bad.

"Oh, yeah, _there's_ a plan," James said, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Leave the little unreliable twit here-"

"Well that's not very nice, is it?" I didn't raise my gaze from the coat in my hands as I spoke, and didn't bother checking his reaction. I'm not one to pick fights, but this guy... deserves a challenge now and then.

"Without her, we'd all be hopelessly tangled in wires we didn't even see," I continued dryly.

"Sure. Great. Now that we've baby-sat her as she disengaged all her fancy traps, I say we kill her." He kept his nose high as he regarded Copper's small form, curled up with her arms around her knees on the ground by Cal. The little girl had sort of taken a liking to Cal- she was the only one of us Copper would talk to, and was always met by a low, calm response from our Captain. I guess the woman behind our strategy had a motherly side too. Who would've guessed?

"Go right ahead," Cal replied icily. "Just know you'd be breaking our treaty, and we'd-"

"-have every right to kill me, I know, I know," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Just trying to be reasonable. Our whole goal is to dispose of other tributes. We haven't been doing very much _disposing_ lately."

"A fact that worries me, too," Cal said, quieter now, as if this was a topic she'd been giving a lot of thought to. She continued in the same low, stressed hiss. "There have been hardly any deaths. How are the Gamemakers keeping Panem entertained with this?"

"What, we aren't entertaining?" Pearl tossed her hair over to her other shoulder and ran her fingers through it briefly, before giving up with the snarls and sighing loudly.

"Not everyone has a face pretty enough to keep an audience enthralled," Cal said, dead-voiced.

Pearl scoffed. "And you think you don't? Really, girl, they would be dying at your feet if I could just get ahold of some mascara and a cocktail dress. You are _so_ lucky-your legs are ten miles long! You must have a million admirers back in Four. All those swimmers..." she trailed off as her gaze slipped into her own fantasy of what Four looks like. I bet her picture didn't include the constant smell of fish or the poverty that swept the back streets and alleys by the dockshops.

"Idiotism aside," Cal piped blatantly. "I think it makes the most sense for-"

She cut off suddenly, gaze locked on me and mind obviously whirling.

"What?" James demanded. Copper glanced up at her in concern.

"Swimmers." Her dazed stare didn't waver.

James rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure they are very attractive-"

"No, idiot, swimmers! In the _ocean_."

Pearl and James stared at her blankly as her idea snapped in my head. I was willing to bet we were going hiking very shortly.

Cal was on her feet in an instant, grabbing the nearest pack and slinging it agilely over her shoulder. "We're going to find the water. The salt water. Haven't you been smelling it?"

Spear in hand, I swung on a pack of my own. Of course I'd been smelling it. My upper lip was cracking from the amount of times my tongue had skidded over it, tasting the salt in the air. It was one of the only things that reminded me of home. That, and the strip of leather that encircled my neck in a loose sort of jewelry-my token. It was just a bit of leather off the ship deck, but it was stiff and molded to my collar bone with sea salt and watery air. Nothing could be a better reminder of what I'm not going home to; I won't have to work on a shrimping vessel after I've won. Mother and Father can stop worrying about us on the boats... they can retire in peace...

"Uh, no." Pearl rolled her eyes, but picked up on the signal and starting slipping her knives into a great range of hiding places on her person. How she could dart around with that many blades against her skin was beyond me.

"...And how _exactly_ are we going to find your little home-away-from-home?" James drawled, reluctantly gathering himself together.

"Carefully," she muttered, scraping her palms along the tips of her trident. After her gaze took on that satisfied gleam, she measured the rest of us up. "Ready for the off?"

"...But Cal, there's only four of us. And her." Pearl sneered at Copper's small form. "Who's guarding?"

"No one," Cal answered without missing a beat, "because we have _this_."

We all drifted subconsciously toward the rod she was pulling from her pack. It was... a straw sort of thing. Open on both ends, with intricate netting lodged inside. Its shiny steel coating promised the instrument a long life, something that I get the feeling was a good thing.

"And are you going to introduce us to your little friend?" James taunted after a moment of us studying the tool.

"It's a water purifier," Cal snapped back, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We find the salt water source, and we have an even more limitless supply than before. And a broader, more protectable camp. Which," she took a breath, "would make a perfect home base for hunting."

Pearl opened her mouth to appose, but seemed to be unable to fight Cal's logic.

"That's a long name," James muttered. "I was hoping for Joe. Or Bob."

Cal rolled her eyes as she tucked the purifier away in her pack. "If it better fits your maturity level... it's _Wup_." With that, she turned on her heel and marched off along the thin stream that poured into our pond, Copper close at her heels.

"Wup? What kind of a name is that?" James called after her, stumbling along in her path.

"_Water_ and _purifier_. Take the first letters and most prominent vowel, and we have your new friend. Keep up, Clickit."

He grappled for a response as Pearl fell into step behind him, me silently bringing up the rear.

Pearl sighed theatrically. "I liked the pond."

I just nodded and prayed for silence. But who was I kidding?

"It was nice and cool... great drinking... I mean, the ocean can't be _all that_."

"It is." Crap. What happened to silence?

"Oh?" Her interest was sparked, and victory flickered in her bright gaze.

"It's... nice. More alive than the puddle we've been living off."

"Oh, but I hear it's so dangerous. Not that I've ever seen it..."

"It treats you fine as long as you respect it."

"Respect it? How do you respect _water_?"

"It's not..." Why didn't I just shut up? "...water. It's the sea. It has currents that can drag you under in an instant... you get tipped overboard, and you're dead..."

She lapsed into silence as we walked along and listened to James and Cal argue with each other. James' frustrated roars were clipped with Cal's sharp tongue of logic, only occasionally broken in a moment in which neither knew what to say. I wondered for the millionth time if it would really be all that dishonorable if Cal, Pearl and I teamed up to get a knife in him...

"So how's your life back home?" Pearl picked up, as if we were close friend who hadn't met in a while.

"It's... great."

"Glad to hear it. Your girlfriend must be so worried about you, coming out here."

The sickly-sweetness that saturated her voice _begged_ for the denial in my response. _Why_ couldn't she leave me alone? Did she really think she was going to be able to crack me like she was so used to cracking others?

"I'm sure she's missing me dearly. Cries herself to sleep every night." I took advantage of her moment of confusion. "Not nearly as bad as your boyfriends, though," I continued in the same quiet tone, carefully emphasizing the plural. "And that bloke from Six? The one you're _established_ with?"

Silent anger blazed behind her gaze for a split second- she obviously wasn't used to boys minding the fact that she has multiple beaus. She blew it off with an airy laugh. "Oh, he was boring and jealous. Preferred his Six brainiac to _me_, can you believe it?" She sighed as if to ask what the world was coming to. This girl _really_ needed to get over herself.

"And you won't rest until you have another guy trailing you like a lost puppy," I muttered, bending closer to her to make sure she got my point.

"What? No, I-"

"...Are all alone, without your usual trail of followers, and you _need attention_," I whispered back.

She laughed louder for the cameras, but I caught the note of hysteria in the sound. She leaned against me in earnest then, matching her steps to mine and smiling as if we were having the time of our lives. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. "Maybe I just need something warm to help me fall asleep."

I harshly swallowed the bile in my throat. "Maybe you can't stand being alone."

"Maybe I have my sights set a bit... higher... this time."

"Maybe you need a severe reality check and a realization of who you're talking to."

"Maybe I like a blond with a build."

"Maybe this is the _arena_, not some _house party_ where you have the pick of the crop." I grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her slim frame to a stop, heavily meeting her gaze. With an incredible effort, I pasted a dirty smile to my face, hoping it didn't show how I was biting back the vomit I wanted to spew all over her. Praying the cameras were picking up on our anticipating, knowing expressions, I dropped my tone even lower, so my lips hardly moved and there was no way any camera could hear what I was saying.

"I see right through you, you know that? You're out to kill just as much as the next tribute. And you have the means, too- I've seen you with those blades. We've armed you, and fed you, and supported you; we've led you to kill after kill. You have everything in this arena."

"Everything except-"

"Don't. Push it."

So of course she had to. Hands trailing up from my arms to my shoulders and twining themselves in the thin hair at the base of my neck, her twisted grin split and she yanked herself up to meet my height-

My own grip moved harshly to her shoulders, and with all the pent-up energy I'd been trying to contain, Pearl was sent back a few feet, into a palm trunk, and crumpled on the ground. Long blond hair tangled over her face as she meagerly lifted her head. All a show of patheticness, I told myself. She had the crowd right where she wanted them-at her feet. _Poor One girl. What a monster of a Four boy. How could he?_

Breath low and ragged with carefully checked rage, I considered her crumpled form. "Leave me alone," I warned her as she began to stagger to her feet, clutching her nose; which, by the look of the stream of blood and slight crookedness, was broken.

"If tat's how you wan' it," she coughed back, trying to flick her hair out of her face as her hands fumbled over her nose.

_Walk away, Neveah. Walk away. Leave her._

But then I'd have one very powerful tribute out of my alliance and in for my blood. I needed to somehow get back in her good books... which was exactly the opposite of what I _wanted_.

With a heavy sigh and an impressive amount of mental strength, I approached her and brushed the bloodied hair off her face. Surprise flickered over her expression as I began wiping away the blood from under her nose and her mouth.

"It's broken," I said gruffly, careful not to meet her gaze.

"Anb?" she mumbled.

"And it's going to be crooked."

A low grumble in her throat gave her opinion of the idea of her face with an imperfect nose.

"I can fix it," I continued, warding all the negative emotion out of my tone.

She sighed and nodded. I carefully place my bloodied hands on either side of her nose and managed to shoot her a victorious glance before I threw all my strength-from heaving nets over the side of the deck-into shoving the core of her nose back into its proper position. She cried out; a feminine, high-pitched sound that was thoroughly satisfying to my bottled temper. A new stream of blood coursed down her face, and I was careful to be overly gentle in mopping it up with the hem of my tank.

"Better?" I asked, letting the tiniest bit of a sneer into the single word.

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. "Yeah. Loads better. We should find Cal and James."

I didn't need further invitation to leave the bloodied palm. I could vaguely hear her angry steps behind me and allowed myself the smallest smile. Breaking her nose had been fun. Re-breaking it had been better.

"Neveah! Pearl!" Cal's distant cry echoed around the nearest palms.

"Here!" Pearl was quick to call back. We both hastened our paces to a run in the direction of Cal's distress.

"Neveah!"

"Hang on!" I yelled back. This was bad. Cal's voice didn't twist like that unless it was bad.

"Hey," Pearl said, running up alongside me as we hurtled through the palms. "I'm loosing a lot of blood."

"Deal," I growled back, pressing my pace faster. It was no use racing her long, lean legs, though, and she easily matched my speed.

"I could faint at any moment," she continued, hardly short of breath. "I really need something to staunch the flow."

"Use your shirt," I snapped before realizing how bad that sounded. With a growl, I stripped mine off and tossed it to her grinning face. She mumbled a thank-you and pressed the soiled fabric to her nose.

"Pearl? Neveah!"

"Com-" We burst hazardously into a leafy clearing, where Cal's voice was much, much closer.

"_There_ you are." Cal's gaze was wide with stress, a plan obviously ticking away in her head. James lounged against a nearby palm, his bored demeanour clashing drastically with Cal's pacing.

"What's wrong?" Pearl demanded from behind my shirt. She adjusted it to get any untouched space good and thoroughly bloodstained. I shot her a glare.

"It's apparently that Five twerp," James answered nonchalantly.

"What about her?" I asked slowly.

"Copper's gone!" Cal finally burst.

"And?" Pearl pressed.

"And she knows where we're headed, and she has all her trap-setting material, and she has all of our plans. She could take us down in a _second_."

I was right. It _was_ bad.

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**Next chappie is written by you... that's right,_ guest chapter_.**  
_(you can ooh and ah now)_

I'm pressing back the due date to Tuesday. DocX me your chapters tonight or tomorrow! _See the previous chapter for specifications and rules and all that fun._

Hm what else... I think that's about it. Oh, right: Check out my recent one-shot, _Wishing Rock_. I'm super new to one-shots and need the feedback! Thanks!  
Remember to tell your friends about this story- you can't sponsor your own tribute, but they can. And you get 10 points if your buddy reviews with your PenName and comments on the story. Win-win!

Read. Review. Invest. Share.  
Sirr.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	15. Guest Chapter

**And now, a special guest chapter, written by the one and only Akai-Pyon.**

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My mind was busy as always, with numbers and little details, as I stared off into the slowly brightening shadows that clung to everything in this arena. The shadows stretched out, as though they were trying to ensnare me into their depths. I shivered slightly, although it was not from cold. The snow had melted long ago, but I was still intent on keeping the fire alive. It was a key part of my trap.

The fire was only mere glowing embers and I sighed, realizing I hadn't been taking very good care of it. I threw in a few dry pieces of wood, watching as they caught and began to burn, brighter than before. The heat reached towards my face, throwing away the shadows that had previously clung there.

The darkness had never really been one of my best friends. But I loved the darkness when it hid from me the answers I wanted. I needed a problem, something to keep my mind busy as I stared off into the dark navy-blue shadows that were slowly starting to turn to gray as the sun began to struggle over the horizon, signaling dawn.

The Hunger Games had been going on for a while now, and I was still alive. I took this as a good sign, as my mind began immediately to calculate the percent chance of survival I had in these Games.

Let's say that each Career counted as two people; it was only right, because they had the experience most of us lacked. There were six Careers in the beginning: two from One, Two and Four respectively. Multiply that by two, and get twelve. That meant, in the beginning, there were thirty-six contestants in the Hunger Games. I had a 2.77777% chance of survival then, at the launch. But after the bloodbath on the first day – with deaths numbering eight, my chances improved to a 3.5714%. Then there was the death of Seed, the Career from 1. That brought my chances up to 3.846%. And then, the deaths of the boy from Three and the girl Career from Two. That meant my chances had been increased from one in twenty six to one in twenty-three - which was about a 4.3478% chance.

Not bad, actually. A 100% increase from what my chances were in the beginning.

The dawn light had just finished struggling through the final stormy clouds, the stragglers that lazily make their way out of the arena. The light lands on the leaves of the palms in a strange way, as I stare up at them, counting the number of pricks each leaf has. Baize is asleep, tears streaming down her face in a silent river, as she curls in on herself, her lips opening to whisper someone's name.

"Adam…"

Briefly, I wondered if a medical condition caused her to cry like this. It had to be a medical condition, the way the tears stream so easily down her face. In the past two days we've been in an alliance, Baize has had tears streaming down her face whenever I mention anything off-handedly about District Six, or ask her about her home. She cries in her sleep, and when we're talking, when we're setting up my latest trap…

But Baize was a good person to have in an alliance. I was very positive that that the alliance I was in might not be the best alliance – in fact, if I pulled in the fact that there happened to be two of us, both girls and not as strong or as tough as the other tributes, our chance of survival in this arena for very long would be small. But then I throw in some odds in our favor – I can build traps, Baize most definitely has _some _sponsors, what with her presentation during the interviews and how we've been playing up the engaged girl separated from her fiancé for everything that it was worth.

"Baize, wake up," I stood up, stretching as I studied our clearing again. The trap was still in place, and there's been no need to set it off quite yet.

Baize stirs, uncurling slowly as she looked up at me through bleary eyes. As I go around adding wood to the fire to start our breakfast, Baize sat up and ran a hand through her hair.

"Did anything happen while I was asleep?" she murmured quietly, watching as I worked. I shook my head slowly, tossing a thick leaf onto the fire and fanning the embers. The flames leapt to life, eating hungrily away at the leafy-green. I noticed some oddly colored sparks as the flames continued to deteriorate the plant, noting that the color was different from when it was consuming the dry wood and stood, mesmerized briefly before looking up at Baize.

"You hungry?" I asked, before rummaging through my pack. Despair plummeted heavily into my stomach as I stared into the yellow nylon depths. There was only one packet of dried fruit left.

Baize looked at me curiously, and I sighed, holding up the packet.

"We need to get some more food," I said, opening the packet and pouring half of the fruit into my hand. I handed the other half to Baize and she stared mournfully down at the meager handful.

"Yeah," she muttered, and I could see the tears at the corner of her eyes again. I groaned inwardly, before turning to look at our surroundings. I heard something snap and immediately, I was on alert.

I frowned, reaching for the branch I had threatened Baize with when we first met. It was a little better now though. We had a small stack of sharpened branches, made sharp by the fire.

"Who's there?" I demanded, fear forming a hard edge on my voice. As it did when I got excited, everything seemed to slow down as my mind began to race forward. I began to notice the small details, like the way the sand floated in the air briefly every time it was disturbed, or how the leaves made a strange scratching noise every time they were rubbed against each other by the wind.

Baize reached down and grabbed one of her own sticks, her upper lip shaking as she too, eyed the shadows.

A girl steps out from the trees, an arrow clutched in her hands. Her eyes were on the both of us warily, as she tried to decide who to impale first. Baize was shaking – I could tell from the way her shadow quivered violently next to me – and I knew without looking that tears were streaming down her face, as she looked death in the eye.

"Are you two in an alliance?" the girl, I think she's from Ten, asked harshly. Baize nodded frantically, trying to do anything to placate this girl that could kill both of us instantly.

"You're welcome to join," Baize stammered out of nowhere and I immediately looked at her, incredulous. Was Baize serious?

"I think I'm good," Sora said harshly.

"It was you!"

We all whirled around in an instant, and I was immediately thrown onto the ground as another girl began to claw at my face.

I struggled on the ground, the world suddenly slowing.

I took in every detail of my attacker's face – auburn hair, small, freckles? There was only one twelve year old, so this must be the thirteen year old girl from District Five.

Her hands clenched around my throat, as I continued to struggle underneath her. Her eyes suddenly went blank, as she coughed, spewing blood all over my face, falling limply onto my body. I pushed her away with a shudder of disgust, as her cannon fired, staring down at the blood now on my tank top and my chest.

Sora stared down at the Five girl with a look of disgust, as she reached down and tugged her arrow from the girl's throat. "My map must be out of date," she snarled. "You're supposed to be with the Careers."

"What?" I blinked, somehow managing to somewhat recover from the attack. My heart was still pounding in my throat, and I was kind of having an out of body experience. It wasn't fun. I tried to drag myself back to the real world, but everything seemed to have taken on another light.

"She was building traps for the Careers," Sora explained, as she wiped the bloody end of her arrow on a leaf, her eyes dark and hooded as she stared down at the girl. "Her name's Copper."

"W-we should leave," Baize finally spoke up, her face pale as she tried to avoid looking at Copper's body.

"What did I do?" I glared at Sora, wanting an explanation for Copper's attack; as I reached down to grab my pack. After this attack, I was feeling just a little bit more comfortable around Sora. She had, after all, saved my life.

"Her traps weren't working," Sora replied curtly, not bothering to explain how she knew or why she was telling me this. "So, naturally, since you've built a trap around this entire clearing, she assumed it was you who broke her traps."

My mind began reeling. I was a target. Why? Because I knew how to make traps and because the Careers had lost their trap maker. I had now two options. One, either the Careers would make me make traps for them once they found me, or two, they would kill me to get revenge. I honestly believed the first option had more of a chance of becoming true, maybe even a 16% chance more. But even so, at the end, they would kill me. I wouldn't be able to kill them before then. They would be watching my every move…My thoughts were going out of control, as I stood, numbly, at the exit of the clearing.

"Analyse, hurry up," Baize looked back at me fearfully. "The Careers could be close!"

Baize was speaking the truth. They honestly couldn't have let Copper too far away from their sight. That meant they were either resting now, for Copper to be able to find us alone, or that they were on the hunt again.

_Think, Analyse, _I thought to myself, forcing one foot in front of the other, as I trudged behind Baize and Sora. Baize was careful to keep Sora in front of her, as we hadn't yet agreed on alliance terms – who knew if Sora was even planning on joining our alliance. She kept looking back at me, and I noticed the tears beginning to form again. Maybe Sora just wanted a kill. And now she was going to turn around and stab the both of us through the throats as easily as she had done to Copper. Then she would have three kills under her belt, maybe more.

No.

My thoughts were going awry. I began to double. _2…4…8…_

"I'll be taking my leave," Sora said abruptly, once we had walked for maybe ten minutes.

"You're not going to kill us?" Baize looked mildly surprised.

Sora's lips twitched. "No," she finally admitted. "But I'm not doing it because I'm weak or because I can't."

Her eyes focused on Baize's engagement ring.

"I'm doing it because you have someone to get back to."

Baize's expression was one of awe, as she smiled slightly, even laughing with sheer joy. "Thank you," she breathed.

I just stood, silent, as I watched Sora's back retreat into the thin palm trees. Sora wasn't leaving us alive because she wanted Baize to get back to Adam. She was leaving us alone because – Crap.

Suddenly, it hit me.

She wasn't leaving us alone out of pity. She hadn't left us alive because she didn't have the guts to kill us. She definitely had the guts to kill. She killed Copper without as much as a second thought, let alone fear or inhibitions of taking another's life. This was the Hunger Games. We were expected to kill.

She was leaving us alone because she knew we were going to die anyway.

"Baize, we have to get out of here," I looked at my ally, fear forcing its way into my voice.

Baize looked at me, slightly confused.

"Copper herself was a trap. Maybe Sora was even a part of it. But the Careers could definitely find us now. There's a sixty percent chance that that's the case," I exhaled sharply.

Disappointment filled my body. I hadn't even made a kill yet and now…I had a chance of dying. So why was I sad? I could leave this world without the blood of another on my hands. I could leave this world knowing that I hadn't betrayed my ally, or killed anybody.

But then, Jake and Jenna's faces flashed in front of my eyes.

And I knew I couldn't just die like that.

"Baize, we're getting out of here," I looked at her, determined, as I grabbed her by the wrist and started to run like all of Hell was chasing my heels – which, in a way, was kind of true.

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**Thank you, Akai-Pyon, and everyone else who entered! **  
**Our runner-up is 3rdbase101, whose chapter I adored from beginning to end, and was _this close_ to being the posted chapter. Great job, 3rdbase.**

The answer to the last trivia question is: Greasy Sae said, "Spring's in the air today. You ought to get out," in _Mockingjay_ by Suzanne Collins.  
New question:  
_What is the definition of "Holo"? _

And another tribute's death is in our future... our near future. Next chapter will be the 10th arena chappie, so we might as well celebrate arena-style... feast, anyone?

Read. Review. Invest. Share.  
Sirr.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	16. A Feast, A Feast

**Here it is, everyone-**  
**The tenth chapter in the arena. Feel like celebrating? I do. And what better way to celebrate than a feast?**

**Hold on tight.**

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The mournful echo of a canon was music to my ears as I watched the pillar of smoke rise from the patch of palms far below. Tall flames licked high above the reach of the lean trunks, giving off odd purplish sparks on their outskirts. I didn't have to wonder how that tribute had died—the flames were spreading quickly off to the east, destroying anything in their way. Any tribute caught underfoot by those bad boys… would be getting a cannon as well.

With a sigh, I slid down the boulder I'd been perched on, content with my safety and enjoying the gentle pressure of my full quiver against my back. Yes—after a few hours of hunting, I'd managed to recover each of the wildly-shot arrows that One boy had launched around the surrounding plateau. Quite the feat, considering the guy had had a strong draw and was quick to release. That, added to the fact that each head was carefully dipped in some sort of toxin that would be suicide to touch, had made my little scavenger hunt all the more rewarding when all 18 were packed safely away (Sora seemed to have been able to break free of hers, and the blond idiot broke one).

Being armed wasn't the only factor for my unusually good mood; with some quick mental math, I figured that we're down to the last 12 tributes. To top it off, I was doing pretty well- I'm left with a familiar weapon, a safe hiding spot where I could view almost the entire arena, and enough supplies to last a few more days. I wouldn't mind sniping from up here, but no way am I ditching my safe haven to hunt for the others. Hey, if they want to die, _they_ can come to _me_. I've got all day. And tomorrow. I'm not sure how much longer my water bottle is going to last, though, so if they'd hurry up and kill each other, my mood might be even better.

Because really, with the right opportunity, our carefully balanced survival could easily self-destruct. I knew the Careers only consisted of four now—the One girl, the Two boy, and both Fours—and the Five girl was most likely dying, if not dead. Traps could only get you so far. Both Sixes were still out there—_that_ couldn't last that much longer—both Sevens were dead, the Eight girl was somehow still breathing; the Nine girl must have some sort of an alliance to have made it this far, coming from a district of medicine. Who else… Me and Sora, which I should be happy about. The Eleven boy—the one with the crush from the interviews—and his girlfriend were still left, too. Chances were, they were together. She looked pretty dangerous back at the Capitol… I didn't have any desire to hunt out those two. Now if only the Careers could stumble upon them, or maybe if Sora found the Eight girl… it would be the perfect push to send our balance tumbling. And as soon as the ball starts rolling, it's only going to snowball until there's a victor.

Namely, me.

I gazed off over the palm's heads and into the distance, watching the blue blur that hugged the outskirts of the entire palm forest. I couldn't see anything beyond the blueness, though, and had to wonder if they had some sort of mirror to make it look like it went on forever. Hm. Whatever it was, of one thing I was certain: this whole arena was an island. A huge one, with no plants or animals besides the palm trees and sand flies, but an island nonetheless. How did this help me?

I'm not quite there yet.

I nearly tripped over the cliff's edge as huge trumpeting music, blaring out the disturbingly familiar Capitol anthem, echoed around the entire arena, seemingly coming from the cloudless sky itself. Oh, this'll be good…

As expected, Claudius Templesmith's dipping Capitol voice promptly followed the music. "Tributes of the two hundred sixty-second Hunger Games!" he announced proudly. Every muscle in my body was tensed, as if Templesmith himself was about to step out from the boulders behind me. I pictured the eleven other tributes also freezing in whatever they're up to, to tilt their faces to the sky and listen to our announcement.

"Congratulations to the remaining twelve of you," he continued. I scanned the treetops again, watching the formerly blazing fire sizzle out and leave trails of wind-tossed smoke to stretch to the sky. A scorched black trail marked its path, from a clearing near the center of the woods to a spot much closer to the forest's edge.

"But I'm afraid you're each in need of something."

I scoffed out loud. I wasn't in need of anything… really. I mean, I could use some water, and the tree bark was getting harsh on my stomach, but I was fine all in all. No injuries or illness. And I had my weapon. I was good.

"You're each invited to a feast, where you'll be able to acquire just what you need. Your goods will be presented tonight at sundown, in the clearing of the Cornucopia."

But I didn't need anything.

"Your attendance is highly recommended. Good luck, and farewell!"

The anthem played once more, before the darkening arena went back to its palm-rustling quiet. I let out the breath I'd trapped in my lungs in one long, slow gush of air. So. A feast.

I wasn't going to go.

I didn't even need to think about it. I was fine here. That Cornucopia will only be a deathtrap—full of Careers and supply-hungry loners who have been in the arena was too long and are probably half-mad by now. No way was I getting in the middle of that. Well, of course I wouldn't technically be in the middle, because I'd be perched at the top of a nearby palm to pick them off as they darted out into the clearing. It wouldn't even be that hard, and there's no way they could catch me from way down there-

No. I shook my head thoroughly, enough to get the blood messed around and my vision poppy. It's a deathtrap.

It's not that far away…

They'll be able to shoot me from the ground.

I'll be able to find my way back here no problem…

Half-mad tributes with an awful case of blood-lust.

I could be the one to give us all a push…

No. No. No…

Yes.

With a resigned sigh, I swept my bow over my shoulder and sprung off in the direction of the largest clearing. The Cornucopia glinted in the dying sunlight as I carefully scaled the least steep section of the cliff's face.

I'd be back by midnight. Completely intact. It might even be fun.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

The tension in the air was almost tangible—I could almost imagine myself back at the farm, standing cautiously away from the stock pen's gate as the older guys prepared to yank it open. The heavy snorts of carefully pent-up horses, desperate for space; desperate to break free…

I couldn't see anyone yet, but was sure everyone was close by. Concealed on the very edges of the clearing, like me, though probably on the ground. I stifled a grunt as I shifted my grip on the palm trunk, trying to ignore the way the bark rubbed the skin on the inside of my legs raw. Darkness had fallen for real now, but my eyes had already adjusted and were working away at identifying the slight movements along the perimeter of the perfect circle that was clear of palms. It was easy to make out the Cornucopia, even from my distance—the sliver of moonlight we had reflected sharply off its rim.

Why couldn't the feast be at noon or sometime during the _day_? The light was the best part of this arena, and even though the unnaturally large moon shed more than enough illumination to see by, the shadows that insisted on lurking in the crevasses of the environment were unnerving. Then again, that was probably the whole idea…

I could see them all—twelve glorious, differently colored packs, all set in a row before the Cornucopia's huge opening. I quickly noted how the One, Two, and both Four packs were pointedly placed as spread apart as possible; which meant the Careers couldn't just barge in and grab their packs all at once. They'd have to split up and hence be more vulnerable… this is good. The Eleven and Twelve packs, on the other hand, were right next to each other—identical sizes, one in silver, and one in gold. The Capitol obviously wants _those_ two to encounter one another. The lone Nine pack sat nestled between two Sixes—one of which was drastically larger than the other. A glint of metallic red was the only hint to one of what must be one of the Ten pack's whereabouts; I had to squint to make out the tiny pack, sitting in its own ring of space, directly in front of the Cornu. No way was I going for that—it was in the worst place. All the other packs guarded it and promised the other tributes wouldn't make it easy to get to. Alright… where's the other Ten?

I didn't have time to find it, though, because a flurry of movement had caught my attention and had my bow loaded and at the ready. My stomach muscles protested painfully as I supported myself just by my legs, wrapped around the trunk in a death lock. The movement was a girl—that much was apparent by the swishing mane of hair that bobbed behind her as she sprinted. I took aim swiftly, directing the end of my loaded arrow to the Six pack she was breaking for—it sailed between her pounding legs and dug into the sand below the pack. _Crap_. How had I missed? It's not like I was in a tree, hanging on with only my legs, in the dark, aiming at a moving target a hundred feet below me…

I bit my cheek in frustration as she gave a slight jump of surprise, but otherwise ignored my arrow and continued at her break-neck pace out of the clearing. Her ponytail wasn't even completely hidden in the shadow of the palms when a lingering, feminine scream pierced the warm night air. It wasn't from her side of the clearing, though; the sound of agony echoed from the western corner. From its source burst a muscled Career with a mop of black hair that fringed his eye line as he jogged at a seemingly nonchalant pace up to the Two pack. As he slung it over his huge shoulder, another boy slid from the shadows. Not a Career… no, he's too slim to have spent his whole life bulking up. A girl tailed him closely, clinging to his shadow as they crept up to the Two boy. They were actually getting really close to where he stood, admiring the assortment of packs. Dangerously close…

I silently loaded another arrow. The non-Career boy with the greasy black hair was stretching soundlessly, his fingertips nearing the larger of the Six packs… And the Two boy turned on him.

He laughed loudly, shattering the silence and making both the others jump. "What have we here, Six?" he called jovially. "Got yourself an alliance? Cute. Real cute."

And he was pulling a weapon from his pack—something chunky and deadly-looking…a mace, by the look of it…

"Hang on, James," a smirk wormed its way into the female's voice as she slunk from the shadows. "He's mine. You can have the girl." Her blond mane glinted off the moonlight, bleaching it to a silver-ish gleam.

The massive Two boy sighed like a small child who'd just been deprived candy. "Fine, fine… have fun."

With a sort a feline-like grace, the One girl drew a long, slim blade from a loaded sheath across her chest.

"Raymond, right?" she purred, examining her knife. "Pearl. Remember me, from the chariots? I'm sure you do."

Any color that had filled the Six boy's face drained as she advanced on him. I drew back the taunt string of my bow, grateful for once of the Capitol's insane budget for arena weapons. Carefully taking aim, I sucked in a taunt breath and clenched my core in an attempt to keep myself upright as I tried to shoot. With a careful withdrawal of my fingers, the arrow rocketed down into the clearing…

Another feminine shriek cut the air—and suddenly, there were twice as many tributes in the clearing. The Eight girl was wielding a knife the length of my forearm—and with surprising skill, too. It caught the Four boy's shoulder and drew painfully down to the inside of his elbow before he managed to throw her off. Even then, she carefully tumbled off her shoulders until she was back on her feet, hair tossed but eyes wide with adrenaline and knife still dripping with the moonlit blood of the Career.

Sora was mixed in with the others, carefully avoiding the quarreling Six and One, and Two and Nine. She had her strategy down to a T—her movements were quick and cutting, each step carefully placed and expertly executed. Animal grunts and cries cut the air, as well as the occasional clash of metal on metal or weapon on flesh. My racing pulse stretched to an even quicker pace as two more figures blended into the flurry of movement. His tall, lean build was easily distinguishable, especially behind her shorter, curvier frame. So Eleven and Twelve had finally joined the party. They didn't waste time in getting to their paired packs; she only paused to slice open the Nine girl's side with a knife I recognized from the original bloodbath at the Cornu.

Thing is, they didn't quite make it to their shimmering packs; the Two boy turned away from Nine long enough to ensnare Twelve in his huge grasp. With a crazed snarl, she lashed out at his face, dragging her nails over his eyes painfully as he roared and snapped his arms away from her. The Eleven boy was quick to swing his arm around in a full-momentum punch that sent Two reeling back a few steps, blood coursing from his cheeks and nose.

Eleven gave his hitting arm a thorough shake, winching, but stayed close to Twelve as they grabbed their packs. Once again, I dropped my arms from the tree and took aim with my bow, this time targeting Twelve's back. She wasn't even moving that fast; this shouldn't be difficult…

The arrow caught Two in the calf, thanks to Eleven having yanked Twelve towards him at the last second. His bright blue gaze rose to the treetops then, scanning wildly for the archer… but he must've missed me, because he didn't waste any time ushering Twelve away from the Cornu with their packs.

With a tremendous leap, Two was on Eleven's heels—literally. The two boys struggled in the sand, hands ripping at each other's flesh and hitting anything left exposed as Nine and Twelve both redrew their blades. The wrestling came to a pause as Two finally pinned Eleven with his massive body weight, eyes alight with bloodlust and beefy hands fixed on Eleven's throat…

My bow swept from side to side as I tried to tally how may have been able to get in and out without getting tangled in the fight. The Six girl seemed to have disappeared with hers… Sora managed to swipe her pack safely, and was now gone in the palms… The blond One girl was squaring off with the Eight girl, and seemed to be getting more frustrated with each blow the other girl executed. The Six boy was lying quite still in the sand, surrounded by his own blood, with his head at an awkward angle as he stared unseeingly up at the night sky—the blond Four boy seemed to have finished him off, then went rummaging through the remaining packs, scuffing aside the more useless supplies. A cannon confirmed my thoughts of the Six boy, and a sudden awkwardness spread through me as I watched the dead body. I shouldn't be looking at the dead… isn't that disrespectful?

So I turned my gaze back upon the remaining quarrelers. Twelve had apparently leapt upon Two and knifed him pretty bad—but Nine was quick to knock her aside and raise her own blade. Eleven scrambled to his feet, coughing badly but somehow still conscious, and took a few stumbling steps away from the two girls.

It was strange, how they fought over who could kill him. The Two himself wasn't putting up that much of a fight, what with several severe cuts and my arrow spreading its toxin from his calf… nevertheless, the girls knocked each other around to get near him, to get their blade to contact his skin…

With a final growl of frustration, Twelve dropped back and let Nine pounce upon the downed Two. And poor, blood-lusty Nine was so fixed on bringing her blade across the back of his throat, that she didn't have time to raise defense against the other girl. Twelve had her knocked aside and pinned in an instant. With heavy breath on her lips, she leaned down to murmur one word through her teeth and into her prey's ear…

I let yet another arrow soar down into their clearing, and was silently relieved as it slid under Twelve and buried itself deep into the Nine girl's chest. The toxin spread quickly, and I bet the girl didn't even feel much of anything as she slipped away into the echo of her own cannon.

I only paused to take a long, shuttering breath as Twelve sprung up and made back to the shadows with Eleven, her recent kill not registering on her hardened expression. The pair ran right under the palm I was perched in—I could've shot them from right there, though it'd be an awkward angle. So I let them go… yanking my attention back to Eight and One's mini-battle in the clearing.

It was with a jolt of surprise that I realized Eight actually had the upper hand. Despite One's obvious still and heightened frustration, she couldn't seem to land even the smallest scratch on the other girl. They parried and darted, carefully seeking the holes in each other's guard. Every few seconds a sharp cry would ring out, and One would have another gash carefully marked on her creamy skin. Both girls' movements were getting quicker, sharper, more carefully planned and cautiously executed. The blades swept closer to flesh, the breath came more hazardously, the fiery gazes burned hotter…

Until a deep masculine voice rang out in the former battlefield. "Pearl. We don't have all day."

This was met by a shriek of frustration from the blond. "I'm _trying_!"

"Try harder," coughed the black haired Two, rubbing the back of his bloodied neck and spitting crimson salvia into the sand. It was weird, how both Career boys didn't seem to feel any of the tension the girls' duel was radiating. They just scuffled around, gathering leftover or abandoned packs. My chest gave a squeeze as they picked up the small Ten pack left for me. What could be in there?

"She just. Won't. _Die_," the blond hissed, a strangely animal spitting accenting her words. My bow was loaded again, but I knew better than to shoot into their squabble; both girls were moving too fast to land a solid blow on either. I also realized this was my time to make a quiet escape… I silently slid my blow over my shoulder and restored the arrow, careful to stretch my fingers away from its bluish tip.

And as I bounded off through the evenly spaced palms, sand flying out soundlessly behind me, all I could think of was how little my chances in these Games were. I'd just witnessed almost all of my competition get safely in and out of a sticky situation that I was too afraid to even stick my toe in. I'd just watched who I thought to be the weakest link, skillfully winning a fight with a Career. If she had that many secrets up her sleeves… where did I actually stand?

At the bottom.

Solidly, definitely at the very rock bottom.

_Crap._

_

* * *

_**Tonight there's two pictures in the sky. Just two.**

**Raymond Heartly, District 6  
Suzu Sendora, District 9**

**Thank you to Dance for the Moon for the wonderful tribute. Suzu was what held that alliance together... who knows where it's headed now. **

Remember to invest points in your favorite tribbie. More importantly, remember to _spend_ those points when you've pooled them up enough. Everybody loves a parachute. PM me if you want to invest/spend... I don't bite.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	17. Mutts

**Just wanted to remind you all that I always adore your reviews- you're the ones making this story keep on comin' every weekend. And also, thank you thank you thank you to Writting2StayHalfSane, my fantabulous beta.**

**I have been planning this chapter for... since I decided on what the arena would be. So. On with the story:**

* * *

My breath was robbed from my lungs, causing them to squeeze in feeble attempts to snatch it back as I pelted through the palms. I was getting close, I could hear him so well…

"_Baize? Baize, darling, come here, would you? Where are you?_"

It was Adam. Clear as day and night and death, it was Adam. And he was in the arena. And he wanted me.

"I'm coming!" I shrieked, the desperate yell ripping up the tender inside of my throat.

"_I've missed you, Baize. Why aren't you coming to me?_"

"I am!" I choked, forcing away the strong urge to vomit after the words hardly escaped. Maybe they weren't loud enough for him to hear, but I would see him any moment now… I pressed my steps harder, faster, harder, madly trying to strip away every shred of this cursed arena to get to him.

"_I'm waiting. And I can't wait to see you. I've been so afraid for you, darling. Not because you aren't strong, but because you're _mine."

Harder, faster, harder, faster…

"…_And no arena should be able to change that_."

"Adam!" I tried to call, but it came out as a hoarse rasp between gasping breaths. How would he know I was coming if he couldn't hear me? Panic swelled in my tightened chest. _Adam_…

"Baize—stop!"

This hardly scraped my interest; the voice was feminine. And coming from behind me.

"_No, Baize, please don't stop. Come to me, darling. I want to hold you like I used to. Sing to you._"

"No! Baize!"

"_I can hear you now, darling. Don't stop. Come to me_."

I liked the way Adam's voice curled in that seductive, snake-like way. It made my mind run in mad circles it had never experienced before… The sweetness of chaos chilled my veins in an icy rush of adrenaline…

"Please, Baize, stop! It's a trap, _please_!"

Analyse? Why was she chasing me…? As another one of Adam's amplified coaxes filled the salty air, it struck me. _She was jealous._ She wanted my fiancé for her own. Of course; we were in a miserable, unpredictable arena… who wouldn't want someone familiar? But oh, no, sister, you've chose the wrong man to chase…

With an animal-like snarl, I kicked even more energy into pelting after his calls, spacing myself from the desperate girl behind me.

"_Baize…_"

"Baize!"

My name echoed from both sides—one a desperate plea, one a coaxing summoning. I was almost there… so _close_…

And suddenly the little wind left in me was knocked completely loose, and my face was slammed into the sand. A feeble cry left my lips as I struggled against the weight pinning me down, my hands rushing immediately to my waistband, where the nine inch knife was pressed broadside to my skin. Panic whipped my already-scattered thoughts into an outright frenzy, taking complete control and letting my observations slip over the slender hands that were fluttering helplessly in an attempt to calm me, or the voice that was close by my ear, shouting.

"Baize—you need to calm down. It's okay; Adam's not here. He's not here, Baize. Baize!"

Her shouts in such proximity seemed to push any other scrambles of thought away, floating off in their own directions. What really snapped me back was the harsh pain that shot from my cheek and spread heatedly to the edges of my face… I relaxed my arms against my sides in a show of surrender.

"Alright, I'm going to get up now. You're going to stay here, understand? You are not going to start running again. Adam is _not_ here." Analyse's tone was slow and careful, as if she was talking to a small child who would be confused by complicated directions. But I played along and nodded, letting her shift her weight off of my and staggering to my feet in a slightly tipsy manner.

"_Baize, are you ignoring me?_"

I couldn't help the way my insides froze up as his voice washed over us. Analyse's expression immediately turned to that of worry, and she half-extended her arms as if she could tackle me at any second. As if she expected me to take off again.

It took every ounce of self-control to plant my feet in the sand and coolly bring my gaze to Analyse's. My vision swam the tiniest bit at the bottom; I could feel the beginnings of tears swelling up on my lower lids. When I didn't make any move to run, my ally relaxed the tiniest bit.

"It's not him," I squeaked, my throat closed and raw from the running and screaming.

"No," she agreed slowly, still trying to catch her breath. "No, he's in Eight."

"But what is _this_?" I whispered, shame swelling in the pit of my stomach. As if in response, another one of fake-Adam's brainwashing coaxes filled the air.

"_You don't love me? You're turning your back on me now, darling?_"

The same tensing in my limbs was my automatic reaction—getting ready to chase down the voice.

"Stay," Analyse suggested gently. I could hear the undertone of a firm command in the single word, and folded my arms hostage across my chest.

"What is it?" I repeated, glad to hear that my voice had returned to its usual volume. It still shook over each word, and cold tears rolled freely down my cheeks to linger on my chin, but at least I could control my shaking now.

"Some Gamemaker's sick idea of entertainment," she answered bitterly, bending to collect my knife from the sand. She hesitated a second before handing it over, hilt-first.

"A trap?" I took the weapon gently, immediately feeling more empowered as the blade brushed against the skin of my waist.

"_You're choosing a stranger over me? I never thought you to be one to betray, Baize_."

I winced. My gaze closed for a second, just long enough to drive away any thoughts of the real Adam. He would never say any of that. He would never taunt me. He would never try to lure me into something dangerous. _It's not him, it's not him, it's not him…_

"You okay?" Analyse asked testily, adjusting the straps of the purple pack she'd snatched from the feast four days back. Mine was a comforting pressure against my spine, and it acted as a sharp reminder of how stupid I'd been. I could have lost it, running madly through this place. I could have been overheard by any tribute within a mile. More shame stacked onto the pile in my gut.

"Fine," I coughed, hastily rubbing the rest of the tears out of my eyes. I needed to do something; standing around was making me anxious, and heightened my nerves for the next fake-Adam message. "I'd like to…"

"Find it?" my ally probed. For only having met me a few weeks ago, she sure seemed to know me well. I didn't need her clarification on what 'it' was. I was ready to go.

Fake-Adam's taunts lead us as we jogged quietly through the palms. For having sprinted across almost a quarter of the arena, Analyse seemed loose and ready for the running we were putting our sore limbs through now. I vaguely remembered her mentioning running as a hobby in her interview… that seemed like forever ago. The bright colors of the Capitol could have been a vivid dream for all the relevance they were to me now. The train that took me away from Eight… I've never had such a miserable night. That's including those in the arena, when I sat huddled in my own arms against a palm trunk, snow seeping its frigid fingers through my thin clothes. Or the day of the Reaping, and they way Adam had kissed me in the Justice building… so slow and gentle, as if I were a fragile bird he had cocooned in his hands. The look on his face as he was forced to let me go, to try out my wings and hope the wind blew with me.

Slow and gentle. Adam was—_is_—always so careful and gentle. Always gives me space when I need it, lets me shine in my own ways. Always the perfect shoulder to cry on, always warm and comforting. The more I thought of my fiancé, probably in the factory with his head craned to watch the tiny screens the managers always had posted during the Games, the more the fake-Adam's voice seemed artificial. The Gamemaker's creation seemed to get more and more desperate for a way to faze me and drive me to the same frenzy I'd been in before; it pleaded, then threatened, then slipped into steaming words laced with seduction, and Analyse and I just kept running as if deaf to it. Which we were, I realized as the air started to stink of salt and the sand beneath our feet became moister.

"Wait," Analyse finally panted, and we fell sloppily into a walk, our breath ragged.

"Yes?" I asked, the words slipping out between dragging breaths. "Why the... stop?"

"We're close," she answered, voice dropping to just above a whisper. She motioned me forward, and we continued at a walk, careful to keep our steps soundless and breathing quiet.

Without the pounding of my feet to distract me, fake-Adam's voice _did_ seem much closer. And less amplified, as if it were just a normal person speaking out loud. In the relative quietness of the palms, it was easy to hear the wet noises of sliding and crashing, unlike any I'd ever heard before. Something about the combination of the salty air and the watery noises reminded me of the tribute train's short stop in District 4…

"Do you hear that?" I bumped Analyse with my elbow gently.

"It's the ocean," she said, though I could tell she wasn't completely sure. Being from Six, she was just as experienced with water as I was—so we were both clueless.

We could see the never-ending expanse of blue peeking out from between the trunks… part sky, part water, all an almost blindingly bright shade. Analyse waved me behind her as we began to breach the last of the palms and away from their shade and into the blindingly sharp sunlight. My hands immediately flew to my face in an attempt to shield my eyes from the light, and we both paused to let our sight adjust to this new brightness.

Wind swept along the beach and tossed my hair in my face. Sand rode with it, and it didn't take long until I was wiping the stuff away from the edges of my eyes. But it was beautiful—the glinting sand, the wide cloudless sky, the sparkling—

"Oh, no…" Analyse's voice was hardly audible over the breeze. "Oh, no, Baize... no…"

The all-too-familiar panic began swelling in my throat as I looked over to see my ally's face frozen in horror. All the color was drained from her cheeks, and her eyes were widening slowly as her cracked lips formed a name. _Jake_.

Confusion fought its way into my chaotic thoughts, and slowly, slowly I followed her gaze.

I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't begin to understand.

But it was definitely Adam who sat perched on a boulder out in the waves. Adam… with a fish tail. My mind scrambled to make sense of what my eyes where telling it, and I could feel the fear begin to freeze the tips of my fingers and toes, spreading slowly up to my chest. I would rather fight the One girl a hundred times. A thousand. Than have seen this sick image of Adam's bare torso fused with a long, slender fish tail—and gashes, horribly bloodied gashes and tears taken out of the metallic scales and tissue-like fins. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of the heavy cuff that encircled the tail, connected to a rusting chain that trailed off into the water.

The Adam-creature looked up with bloodshot eyes. "Baize," he called, loud enough for my own name to racket around my head. "Baize, help me. Please."

I tried to open my mouth, but my lips were completely useless.

"No! _Wait!_"

I nearly jumped out of my skin; Analyse's shriek of desperation came as a complete surprise, and momentarily confused me. Her own eyes were becoming red, her hands raised to rip at the skin of her cheeks. She took a few stumbling steps toward the waves, almost unrecognizable in her frenzy.

"Don't go, Jake, _don't go!_" she screamed at the waves. It was then that I realized Adam wasn't the only half-fish out there. Nine others were scattered about the bay; some on rocks, some bobbing in the waves, all half-naked and somehow mutilated and chained. I noted a small boy who couldn't have been any older than ten; an almost model-like boy who looked to be about nineteen, with a huge gash across his attractive face; a glasses-clad boy with horrific stitches running down his tail; an older girl with thickset arms and bleached blond hair, who was missing an entire fin; a girl about my age with mousy brown hair and an awfully torn ear; and two girls who sat side-by-side… almost identical in appearance, with the same olivey skin tone and straight black hair, of which random chunks were thinning and missing completely… I gasped slightly as I recognized the tribute girl from Twelve in both their bruised faces. And then there was a black-haired boy with a hand pressed to one eye, struggling to raise himself onto a boulder with the mousy-haired girl. This must be the Jake Analyse seemed to know—her screams heightened as he was forced to take his hand away from his face to hoist himself up the rock. The socket was empty.

I resisted the strong urge to vomit; the entire scene would surely haunt my nightmares for the rest of my questionably long life.

Just as I was beginning to get a strong enough grip on myself to realize I had to quiet Analyse down, and fast, they all seemed to see us. All their pleading, pain-filled eyes locked on us, and every half-fish began to speak. Some screamed, some pleaded, some begged, and one laughed. But they _all_ spoke.

"Please! Please, Cal, come help me. You swim like a fish."

"I knew you'd come… Leesie."

"What's going on, James? Where's Mother? It hurts, James!"

"Pearl, babe, you gotta help me. You gotta—get someone—"

"Haven't lost your goat horn, have you, Arrett? Been a good- _Ow_!"

"It's just the ocean. Like home, Nevs. Swim out here and help me."

"Sora? _Sora?_ Can you hear me? This is an emergency—they're going to hurt me!"

"Ash! Ash—help! Ash! I never should have let you come—I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But please help me now—_Ash!_"

"Man up, Sparrow. Now isn't the time to get soft. I _need_ you."

And the worst—the voice I'd been listening to for an hour, but was almost unbearable paired with the sickening image of Adam's face on the naked fish creature. "Baize," he pleaded, gaze caught with mine. "Baize, just swim out. Just get me."

_It's not him_, I pounded into my skull, over and over. _He's safe. They can't touch him. It's not him_.

Analyse seemed to have other ideas. With trembling steps, she was making her way to the waterside, calling out for her friend the whole time. I could hardly believe I was going after her—soon we were both crashing into the water, soaking our shorts and tanks thoroughly as I grabbed hold of her waist.

"Analyse!" I tried to say into her ear. "Analyse—stop!"

I had to eventually resort to brute force to convince her to leave the clouded water. I think she knew it wasn't safe far earlier, though; there was already resignation in her eyes when I'd first told her to stop.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

Half an hour later, our breath was back at a natural pace as we lay on our backs and gazed up at the underside of palm leaves. I couldn't get myself to think of anything but the ragged fish people… their images became less and less sharp as I tried to recall every detail.

"What," I finally spoke, my voice closed from disuse. "Were they?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Analyse answered, voice completely emotionless. "They're the latest and greatest mutts."

"Muttations?"

"Yeah… I didn't think they were allowed to use _people_ in those experiments…"

"If they weren't allowed to use people in their experiments, they wouldn't have the Hunger Games."

She sighed heavily. "True." Another moment passed when our speech died out and we listened to the distant sound of the waves crashing against the bloodied boulders. "What a clever design," she chuckled bitterly, "to target the tribute's insides. Bravo, Gamemakers."

Exhaustion swept over me in a tidal wave of warmth, and I was suddenly content to just lie there and let the sun eat away the last of my energy.

"Hm," I vaguely responded.

"There's one fish person per surviving tribute. The good-looking boy must've been for that One bitch, the little one could be a brother or something of-"

"That Two boy?"

I felt Analyse freeze beside me as we both sensed the other people around us. There was no doubt about who they were, either. Looking up, my thoughts were only confirmed when I was met by the faces of the One girl, Two boy, and both Fours. Each had a weapon drawn and pointed directly at us.

"Show us the merpeople," the Four girl commanded coolly, "and we'll think twice about killing you."

* * *

**Bum, bum, _buuum_...**  
**Merpeople. Of course only the 4's know to call them that, but _merpeople_. This should be interesting.**

I've been so behind on my trivia.. sorry everyone.  
Answer to the last trivia question: "Holos" were the fancy watch-like devises the rebels used in _Mockingjay_. The word _holo_ actually means 'whole', which probably reflects on the device's ability to show a 3D map.

This week's question:  
(_level_: easy peesy)  
I**n Chapter 13 of Let Your Games Begin, how many tributes were alive in the arena? **(8 points to the first correct answer; 4 to every other correct answer)  
**Bonus Question:** Do any of you shanks know which book series this sort of shuckin' klunk of a vocab is from? If you don't... slim it. If you do, PM me and if you're right, you'll get 20 shuckin' points.

I feel like I'm forgetting something... hm. If this chapter is reposted later, it's because I forgot to mention something down here. That sort of goes for every chapter...

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	18. Side Effects

**And we're back. Sorry for the delay- my poor beta was under the weather. And this chapter is ginormous... somewhere around 6,000 words I think? Two or three times as long as regular chappies.**

**But I hope it was worth the wait.**  
**Without further ado, we pay a visit to our good friend Sparrow.**

* * *

She rolls her eyes. Again. As if her exasperation with my apparent stupidity can get any bigger.

"We're _not_ walking aimlessly," she demands for the umpteenth time.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Then where are we _going_?"

Her front teeth hold her lower lip hostage as she lengthens her determined stride. Too bad her legs are half the length of mine; I keep up easily. She's quirky, Aislin. Smart, for sure. I don't doubt she has a well thought through and complex plan ticking away in that head of hers. And determined. Never for one second has she lost the fire she blazed with in the chariot launch. But… stubborn. Really, really stubborn.

"You're not going to tell me," I sigh, shoving my hands into my shorts pockets. Their olive-y green color is fairly sun bleached by now, with a few bloodstains here and there from various scuffles. But in comparison to Aislin's get-up, they're Reaping clothes. Her tank's fabric is stiffened with salt; I can see how it chaffs under her arms and across her chest. Her olive-y skin is turning pinkish there, giving off clear warnings of an upcoming rash. Not to mention how an entire half of the miserable top is caked with blood from her shoulder wound… I avert my gaze to the sand before I can re-hash my images of the gash itself. Infected, for sure. She's been refusing her meds since the feast—convinced, even, to leave the tiny bottle behind. I can feel its warm glass in my pocket, clicking occasionally against my filthy fingernails.

"Can I at least guess?" I pipe up after a moment of pressing quiet.

She doesn't respond. I guess that's as good a yes as a no.

"Are we… going to the candy store?"

She sighs, her ever-constant exasperation rearing its head again.

"Are we going to… the Justice Building?" She shoots me a scorching glance. "I know I sure love me some Justice Building…" I mumble, scrambling for something that could assist my pathetic attempts to break her shell.

"Are we going to the Soilry? The Seedery? The metalsmith's—"

"Shut _up_." Her words racket around the surrounding palms like darts, instantly killing the jab I'd had in my throat. Her eyes squeeze shut in thought, and she actually stops walking—something she hasn't done in _hours_.

"Done with our little marathon, are we?" I ask, keeping my voice at a quieter level. "I don't see a finish line." My gaze shoots from the palm tops to the sand and in sweeping glances around our apparently insignificant location. Just more palm trees. Sand. Sand flies. Blue sky. Same old, same old.

"Did I not tell you to shut up?" she hisses, her own eyes raking our surroundings with a keen sort of expectation. "It's here…"

"Oh, _right_. I knew that tree looked familiar. Is this the one with the magic portal back to the Districts? Or is that the one fifty-two steps to the east?"

My lame jab is lost on her anxious glancing about. "_Shh!_" she hisses again. Listening. I'm supposed to be listening.

Not one of my strengths, but I carefully shut my mouth and try to hear something. Anything. Right when I'm about to consult her super-sensor ears, it hits me. Water.

"This way," she barely has time to call over her shoulder before she's darting off after the distant wet noises. I'm right on her heels; chasing the swishing black ponytail and trying not to imagine how bad her shoulder must hurt. Especially running—maybe we should slow down…

Within minutes, our pursuit is satisfied. Of course it is water. A perfect amount, too. Just a little spring, with a small stream pouring into an incredibly clear pool, its bottom decorated with various shells and rocks. No plants, though, and no fish. Guess this arena is predictable in some ways. Our spring sits off to the edge of a wide clearing, but I hardly have time to take it all in before Aislin's already thrown her pack down into the upturned sand.

"Someone's been here," she states blandly, examining the arena around us crucially. "But they left… a while ago."

I also notice how the sand is disturbed with footprints and drag marks… maybe from various packs like ours?

"Who?" I ask, still trying to comprehend how lucky we are. Really—stumbling upon a fresh water stream? This meant limitless water, a great campsite, maybe even a chance to get the foot of dirt uncaked from my skin.

"The Careers." Her gaze darts around us for a few moments more, before her taunt frame visibly relaxes. Seemingly content with our safety, she drops to her knees in the half-settled sand and reaches for her pack. I notice how she winces as her shoulder is extended, her lips biting off a cuss word I'd never heard. Must be a Twelve thing.

"I was here," she continues as I settle against the same rock she leans against. I try to ignore the way she shifts to lengthen the space between our bodies—not that it bothers me. It doesn't. Just an observation.

"Early on?" I probe, running my fingers over the shimmering, liquid-like fabric of my Feast pack. The silver catches the dying sunlight its million tiny faces, throwing tiny reflections over the sand and the toughened skin of my arms.

"When I got shot. When Su—when the Nine girl and I met that Six idiot."

I am amazed at how loose she suddenly is; it is hard to think of how stressed and determined she'd been ten minutes ago. Maybe it was the security of having a stable camp. Maybe it was being in a smaller alliance. But she was just _talking_. Still not in a necessarily _nice_ way, but it beat her usual stony silence by miles.

"Before I ran into you," I nod, trying to keep her rolling with her story.

Her brow furrows. "I didn't meet you until you stabbed me with that needle," she says, clearly bothered.

"No, I meant—"

Her gaze narrows.

"Back when Seed and I were allies—the backstabbing bastard—we sort of… I dunno, _ambushed_ your camp. Seed got his weapon and ran, and I… messed up Six's face. It was weird."

Her confusion turns to surprise—emotions switching out so quickly, I almost want to rub my neck in whiplash. "So Ray's ugly _thing_ is from you?"

"It was not a _thing_!" I protest as something like a chuckle is released from her throat. I realize I've never heard her laugh before—not that this counts, but I still add it to my mental checklist of things I don't know about this girl. It files in at about #578.

"What was it supposed to be?" she snorts, raising a hand to press to her lips as if trying to tell them to stop smiling.

"A bird!"

"You cut the shape of a _bird_ into Six's face?"

"Yeah."

"_Why?_"

"It was a sparrow."

"What does that have to do with—" she cut herself off, nodding slowly. "You're Sparrow. Right."

Well, shit. Now that she freakin' _knows my name_, we can move on to harder topics. Like District number and eye color.

"And you're Aislin. From the Seam."

Her eyes flash with something, harsh and too fleeting to catch, before she claps meekly. "Gold star for Sparrow."

My name sounds awkward on her tongue, like it's a stranger trying to make itself comfortable in a home that isn't his. I don't have time to worry about this, though; a sharp cry of pain barely escapes her chest before her arms are back to their normal positions; limp at her sides.

"It hurts, doesn't it," I state firmly. It wasn't a question—more of a demand. Though I certainly don't _feel_ in a position to demand anything…

"No," she hisses, testily trying to roll the shoulder in question before wincing sharply and rotating it back into place. "Just dandy."

Any spark of lightness, of relief from finding our little oasis, is gone. Snuffed by a pain that she refuses to treat. I glance wearily over the puckered wound—the infection jumps out at me like a neon sign. _This is bad_, it screams. _Only going to get worse_.

I finger the tiny vial in my pocket. Its glass is warm from sitting against my hip for so long. We sit in a tight silence for what seems like hours but could only have been a few moments—I can see how bracing her breaths are, as if it hurt to even get air in and out of her lungs.

"C'mon," I finally burst, bringing the itsy bottle from my shorts. "It's just three drops. _Three_ _drops!_"

"No," she answers with just as much persistence.

"Just explain to me _why_. Give me three—no, _five_ good reasons why not to cure that hole in your shoulder."

She begins to take a sigh, but stops abruptly and releases the collected air with a huge effort to shield her expression from the obvious pain. She fails. "One. It's not from a certain sender—not Nine, not home, and not the Capitol. Two. It's glitchy; I'm not going to gamble with sketchy _side effects_. Three. Said side effects sound like a load of crap. Four. Freakin' side effects. And Five. Side effects."

"That's only, like…" I glance down at my fingers. "Two reasons."

"Doesn't matter; I'm not getting that bottle anywhere near my tongue."

"Voluntarily," I correct her. "You're not getting this bottle anywhere near your tongue _voluntarily_."

The warm brown color of her eyes narrow into pissed-off slits. "You think you'll be able to get that stuff in me?"

"Not _voluntarily_. Because you're going to freakin' puss to death if I don't."

"These are the Games, feather ass. I can deal with a little pain. What I don't need are hallucinations or any of that… side effect crap."

I raise my eyebrows, shooting her a sidelong glance. "Feather ass?"

"Shut up."

I half-raise my hands in a show of surrender. _#247: Get a nickname_. Check.

"What if I inject it into you in your sleep?" I hedge.

"With what syringe?"

"You mean I can't just slice you open and dump it into your bloodstream?"

Her sense of humor isn't very forgiving. "You won't be able to get within five feet of my knives. Much less be able to _take_ one, and somehow _cut_ me with it."

Call me scatter-brained, but I figure this is a really good time to change the subject.

"So," I start broadly, scrambling mentally for something to follow up my conversation starter. My gaze catches on the gently shimmering fabric of my pack—and I can't believe how stupid we'd been.

"Merry Christmas," I grin, reaching for my pack and waiting for her to catch on. I am about to grab hers for her—but the warning glare sends my hand to scratch my knee in a lame attempt to conceal the notion. It doesn't go unnoticed.

Her lean olive-y fingers yank open the gold pack before I even have mine right side up. Trying to seem intrigued by the drawstring of my own Feast gift, I quietly watch her gaze widen as she draws a slender silver container from the folds of the golden fabric.

"A water purifier…" she murmurs to herself, expression frozen in shock as she turns the slim thing over and over in her palms. The smooth metal hisses almost inaudibly against her dry skin.

"That's great," I chirp, my tongue acting before my mind does. "Now we can… purify. Our water." With a stupid sort of half-grin, I gesture vaguely to the pool behind us, its surface glittering in the dying sunlight.

"There's a card," she mutters, examining a parchment-like paper folded carefully into the vague shape of a bird of some sort… a swan? Her careful fingers unfold the dainty creature, revealing a blot of strung-together words. "_For Aislin Lieds, in hope you'll find its purpose and maybe more on the way. Best of luck—we're all betting on you. Sincerely_… I don't know how to pronounce that."

"How's it spelled?" I offer.

"'Yeah pot?' 'Why spot?'"

I glance over her shoulder at the hardly legible loops. "_Y Spot_," I nod. And I thought "_ECSSDS_" was weird…

She's perfected her _you are such a moron_ face by now, and takes this time to display it for me. Which, of course, sends me desperate to find something else to say. "What does it… do?" More of the half-glare. "Your gift."

"Purifies water," she answers curtly, stowing the device back into her bag. I hate this coldness she adopts so easily. It's as if I could say anything and she'd still look at me like I'm twenty steps behind her. Fifty. With a sigh, she resettles herself against the sun-warmed surface of the vertical stone. I wish I knew what was going on in that head—but her expression is as easy to read as those ink blots we studied in art. I could come up with a dozen explanations, but none of them would be right. Thoughtful? Regretful? Exhausted?

"What's in yours," she finally drawls, as if I'd been begging for her to ask. I shrug and finally—_finally_—tug open the medium-sized drawstring bag. A note was the first thing to flutter out, swinging in teasingly long swoops on its way to the sand. Aislin reaches out for it before I can, and the tiny, tissue-like paper is crumpled in her grasp. "Oops," she states blandly of the smashed little paper.

"What does it say?" I ask, ignoring her last comment. She opens her fist to reveal the little thing condensed down to a tiny paper wad—just barely too big for spitball making. And I would know—I can't count how many times River, the twins and I have battled it out spit-style. One of the many advantages to being a guy: no long hair to collect the nasty little projectiles with. Seriously. Vi and Lilac find little wads in their manes _days_ after the battle.

Aislin presses the little note flat with surprising gentleness. I catch a glimpse of the lacy script handwritten there before a sheet of her black hair spills into my way.

"_To the lovely Sparrow Kingston. Keep your allies close._ _From_…"

"From?"

"No one." She looks up at me, checking my reaction.

"No one?" I can't help it; I'm on my knees by her side in an instant, looking over the note for myself, as if my eyes could prove what my ears refused to believe.

_Anonymous._

That's what it says.

"Well?" she asks, her shield of ink blot-ness slipping to show her interest. "What is it?"

My hand is already groping around inside the bag. It's coiled, whatever it is. Roundish, leather, and smooth to the touch.

"It's…" I grab hold of a section of the thing and yank it out. "…a whip."

All color drains from her cheeks, leaving her expression sickly beige. "Somebody sent you a _whip?_"

"Yeah…" Taking hold of the tightly bound handle, I give the weapon a shake. It unfurles, carrying a slight wave down its length and cracking gently at the tip. It took every ounce of self-respect I had not to drop the thing right there and run for it. Not because it was wildly foreign to me—but because I knew exactly how to use it. I'd never actually been the one on this end before… My back tingles with unpleasant pins and needles.

I carefully coil the slim weapon and repack it.

"You can use a whip?" Aislin prods with a token of curiosity.

"Do you think this water is drinkable?" I counter, shifting my entire attention to the pool. I'm at the water's edge in an instant, kneeling over my own vague reflection. "Do we have to use your new toy, or can we just go for it?"

I notice how she flinches as she gets to her feet to join me, leaving a good two feet between our shoulders. Both our frames bend slightly over the cool water, examining its perfect clearness for a few moments.

"It's fine. To drink." She finally concludes. Not like I wouldn't have if she told me it was dangerous…

"Good that. I feel _disgusting_." Without further ado, I straighten up and take hold of the hem of my tank, tugging the soiled piece of fabric up and over my head. It peels away from my skin unwillingly, clutching its sweaty fibers to my chest and back. But once it's off, it feels incredible. I swing my shoulders testily, enjoying the freedom of the movement, before lodging my thumbs inside the waistband of my shorts.

Aislin looks like I've just physically hit her. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

My hands pause. "You're right. I could've lost your crazy juice." My fingers quickly find the little bottle in my pocket and pull it out. I wrap it in my shirt and set the bundle gently in the sand.

"Don't screw with me."

"Don't flatter yourself. There are other reasons for getting undressed." I tug my stiff cargo shorts off my hips and step out of them before she can protest further. It doesn't matter if she is down with it or not—I have sand everywhere, and am _so_ ready for a good cool-off. I briefly consider removing the crappy underpants they supplied us with… but that would probably give Aislin a heart attack, and I need her alive.

With two running steps, I launch myself into the cool water, satisfied with the huge splash that didn't miss Aislin. Cool water runs its gentle fingers through my matted hair, caressing my filthy skin and coaxing all the grit off me. I'm not a swimmer, but I know how to flail my limbs enough to get my head above the surface. The pool can't be more than fifteen feet deep at its very center—the sides slope up, providing good footholds. No way I can drown.

Once my head breeches the surface again, I spurt a stream of the clean water out of my mouth and shake my wet mop of hair out with a pathetically suppressed laugh. My crow of joy rackets around our clearing and Aislin's stiff form. She looks mortified at my entire display of happiness. Which I could guess.

"What are you _doing_?" she asks, even angrier and quietly urgent this time.

"Bathing, to put it in small words you'll understand."

She kicks a sheet of sand into the water; I duck out of the way just in time to miss an eyeful of the damned stuff.

"This feels amazing!" I call up to her, half-paddling around the little area. "So cool… and refreshing…"

"Shut up!" she calls back, squeezing her gaze shut and rubbing her temples methodically.

"Don't feel like it."

"I'm going to kick your feathery _ass_—"

"C'mon in, the water's fine."

"Sparrow—"

Again with the awkward name. It's a bit more comfortable now, I can tell, but still. "Feather-ass" is more familiar to her tongue. The only thing I can think to do is paddle over to bob at her feet. Before she can kick sand into my face, I reach up with both hands and yank with all my not inconsiderable strength, hands locking around her ankles. With a surprisingly girly shriek, she comes crashing into the water beside me, disappearing beneath the surface for a split second before her head re-emerges, face covered by her limp hair. Her face flies up to split the curtain of hair and glare at me for a nanosecond. The glaring was the nice part—as soon as she caught her breath, she made it her life's goal to murder me.

The advantage I have was the lake in Eleven. Only one, but it's where all our water supply for crops come from. It's also technically "illegal" to swim in, but… we're teenager boys. The crusty old "No Swimming" signs are graffiti'd over and long forgotten.

I'm no District 4. I can't do any of the fancy, efficient strokes; just enough to keep me moving and alive. But Aislin has an even _smaller_ fraction of swimming expertise than I do. Her legs beat like crazy to keep her face above the water, and she makes hilarious frog-like motions with her arms, whapping my chest a few times. Yet she somehow manages to free her frog arms just long enough to wrap them around my head and pull me under; holding me there for as long as she herself can hold her breath… which is about ten seconds.

"Aw, now your fancy clothes are all wet," I pout, doing my best to be good and keep my eyes above her collarbone. Most of the time. She had the wet tee shirt contest _in the bag_.

"Shut—" Her snappy reply is cut off by a bone-chilling shriek that would be sure to attract any tribute within a mile. It startles me enough to make me loose my paddling rhythm and go under for a second; until now she's always just hissed or winced in pain. Never a cry. Or rather, never a cry like _this_. It is like the sort of squeal a rabbit would make when its limbs are torn off, dissolving into a more raw roar that she did her best to cut off but just _couldn't_.

The water begins to cloud with the blood pumping from her reopened wound. At the sight of the first few red ribbons weaving their way into the pool, I am happy for once that my actions beat my thoughts to the chase. I swing one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back, and rise with both our weight plus her heavy clothes and hair, stumbling out of the water and onto the dry sand. Her teeth dig into her tongue, cutting off another scream when I set her down and accidentally brush the shoulder in question. Fingertips red from their brief encounter, I dart away from her, still soaking wet myself, to retrieve the bundle by the poolside.

The little bottle is in my wet grasp in seconds.

"No!" she protests half-heartedly, one hand gripped over the pumping wound. Thinking quickly, I grab my shimmering golden pack from where it lies a few feet away and dump my whip into the sand before tearing the bag down the center to create one longish strip of the expensive fabric. With every ounce of first-aid training I'd gathered from the Training Center, I wrap her gushing wound tightly in gold; the costly fabric was almost soaked through by the time I was done handing it over and under her upper arm.

"Give me the medicine," she hisses through harshly clenched teeth.

"Are you—"

"Give me my medicine!" she screams, rushing my fingers in unstopping the tiny thing.

"Open up," I conduct, as doctor-like as I can. She doesn't resist my help in holding her head back as I raise the little vial. One… two… three drops of the oddly colored liquid, absorbed instantly into her tongue.

I've heard of Capitol medicines working miracles. I've seen them get a dying boy back onto his feet in previous Games. But hearing about it, and seeing it, is completely different than _experiencing_ it. Because it isn't ten seconds before her quenched eyelids sre fluttering back open; raging color is leaving her cheeks; and her unhappily crammed lips part slightly.

"You okay?" I ask gently, afraid that she could explode back into the same pain any moment.

"Yeah. I'm…" she looks around our clearing dreamily, as if seeing it for the first time. "Dizzy. Lightheaded. Did they say—" she sneezes tinily "—I would be dizzy?"

Again. Whiplash. I didn't know what to say, or how to react to… this.

"Sparrow? What's wrong?" she asks in that same airy tone, getting shakily to her feet. I keep a steady hand under her elbow, expecting her to shake it off; she doesn't, so I'm left to awkwardly remove it myself.

"My name's feather ass." I offer a half-hearted smile. She laughs. No—giggles. She freakin' _giggles_.

"Not my most creative work," she hiccups with a smile. Smiling? Giggling? 'Minor side effects' much? "I have better names for my sister—my twin, remember? Her name is Skye. You would be her friend, ya know."

There's a certain mistiness to her gaze that makes me think I'm not the only thing she's seeing… It's creepy, for sure, yet I have this sudden urge to laugh. Thankfully, I suppress it.

"Is this from when that _bastard_ shot me?" she asks, twisting her head to examine her makeshift golden bandage. Her words are getting slower; more slurred. "It's itchy." She raises her hand to it as if to tear it off; I beat her, snatching her wrist and holding it hostage while she examines my face with dreary confusion.

Her foggy grey eyes widen as she stretches up on her tiptoes to get her mouth near my ear. "Why're you naked?" she whispers confidentially, as if we are in a huge crowd and she is telling me I have spinach in my teeth.

"Because I was swimming," I answer curtly, deftly sidestepping away from her.

"Swimming? I can't swim very well." More giggles, spilling out one after another like bubbles overflowing a glass.

"I know," I say earnestly, with a tinge of bitterness. I honestly have no idea what to do with this… _non-Aislin_. Maybe get her to sleep off the duration of the meds? I glance down at the little bottle cradled in my hand, raising it to squint at the label. Minor side effects, blah blah, hallucinations, blah blah… ah. Here we go. '_Effects will be most prominent within an hour of consumption_.'

Just an hour, I try to comfort myself as Aislin inspects her long locks between curious fingers. "Why is it so long?" she murmurs to herself. "What if I got in a fight? They could yank it…"

"It's nice," I pipe up cautiously, side-stepping over to the pond's edge to retrieve my shorts.

"I guess. I think Skye convinced me to let it grow. She's so good at talking me into things; it's ridiculous, really. _Cabbage_."

"She's your twin?"

"Yeah. She's eight minutes older than me… I volunteered for her, ya know."

I _hm_'d a reply, searching around our clearing for where I threw my soiled tank after getting out her medicine. I couldn't have tossed it that far…

"She wouldn't last ten minutes in this arena," Aislin continues thoughtfully, still running her hair over and under her hands. Her warm grey gaze tracks me wearily, but I get the feeling she isn't really _seeing_ me. "This sort of thing would be the end of her." She shrugs her bandaged shoulder. "She isn't weak or anything; just too… _nice_."

"_Can_ somebody be too nice?" Where is the bloody shirt?

"If they can, Skye is. She has… a _million_ friends. It's like everybody likes her. _You_ would like her. That's why I hate you."

My hands pause in their pawing through the sand. "You hate me?" I call over to her. She's not herself, I tell myself. '_Confusion_,' the bottle had read.

"I think so. It's so weird, Sparrow… my head is a kaleidoscope of _craziness_. I remember hating you. I remember a gold cape. I think I remember Suz… Suzan? And Richard. We were allies. _Gah!_"

Her hands fly to her temples, her gaze squeezes shut. "I can't think straight. It's crazy. _Daisies_."

I try to ignore the random words she sticks into her slurred, drunken speech. "Do you still hate me?" I prod gently.

"I… I dunno. I think you… _frustrate_ me."

_What?_

"I don't—what's _that?_" Her eyes are open again, and she's taken a tottering step forward. Her toes are inches away from my whip, where I'd flung it when she was bleeding to death, and she was staring at it as if it were a dangerous snake that could attack at any second. "Whose is it?" she whispers in shock.

"Mine," I admit somewhat grudgingly, hurrying over to snatch it out of the sand and recoil it neatly. The feel of the leather sliding over my skin gives me the same unpleasant shivers as before. I still can't believe someone would send me this of all things—why not a good old scythe or even a rake or something? I could bludger them to death with one of the smaller pickaxes we have around the farm… but a whip. Politically incorrect is the word. Words.

"I… hate whips," she confides quietly, eyes glued to the weapon in my hands.

"You ever been lashed?" I ask bluntly.

"No… but I've watched it. In the town square. Hunters who go beyond the fence. Hob people. Thieves."

I chuckle darkly. "Thieves, eh?" I look down at the whip for fear of seeing the exact expression on her drugged face, noticing how it is brown, not black like the ones the Peacekeepers kept strapped to them. Or white, like the Head Peacekeeper prefers… that one has a barbed tip. It takes two whole days longer to heal than the normal ones.

"Have _you_ ever—" she cuts herself off, and I can feel her eyes on my face.

"Stolen?" I ask, deadpan. "Sure. It's a hobby, in a sort. Well… a hobby to keep the kids from withering away."

"And you've…" Her gaze drops to my whip.

In response, I turn my back to her and arch my spine the slightest bit-I know that stretches the scars there, turning them sharply white. She gasps, and I can gather why. It's not because she's never seen this sort of thing, just probably not so intimately.

"Glamorous, isn't it?" I ask darkly.

I'm about to turn back around when something moist and warm touches the puckered skin. Her fingertips trace one of the newer ones, courtesy of my good friend Nathanial, our sector's Peacekeeper. Those were for snatching an orange from the orchards—I was trying to get us something nice for Reaping day. Fifteen lashes for one orange. _Fifteen_. Experience allowed me to stay conscious for the first twelve or so normally, but that time I never lost it. Because I'm always responsible for dragging myself home—the twins are working, and River and Falcon can't support my weight. But for every time I'm caught and shredded, I successfully complete _five_ other runs. That ratio used to be a lot more even, back when I was still trying to squeeze _under_ the potato farmer's fence instead of vaulting over it… the tricks come with time, I guess. It doesn't make it any less painful to get caught.

Aislin's tone is slightly shaky. "I'm…" her touch slides up the tender skin, then down my spine. No way am I getting tingles from that. Her fingertips linger at the base of my neck and the small of my back. No way is her drunken touch creating this pleasant buzz in the back of my head. Get it together, Sparrow. "…_so_ sorry."

"It's fine," I shrug away from her gentle fingertips, shaking out my wet hair. "You gotta do what you gotta do. Family comes first."

"You're red, Sparrow."

"That generally happens when your skin is shredded—"

"No, Sparrow, you're _red_. Like a strawberry."

I glance down at my bare chest and arms; they're the same pale tone as usual. "I'm fine, Aislin."

"It's Ash."

"…Right." I stare down at my rough feet for a few odd seconds.

"And there are these… little mirrors in your eyes. Are they always that bright? Or maybe… scrutinize."

I bite my tongue. There can't be that much longer in it now. Maybe fifteen minutes. I can do fifteen minutes.

"How did you get so tall? I've always wanted to be tall."

Maybe the final stretch is the worst. I _hope_ the final stretch is the worst.

"Sixty-two. Sparrow?"

"Hm."

"What's a soilery?"

I glance up to see her head slightly cocked, brows furrowed in curiosity. "You mentioned a soilery before, when we were walking."

"It's where they turn dead bodies into compost."

If she is taken aback, she doesn't show it. "That's what you do with your dead? In Eleven?"

"Yeah. The idea is that we live completely off the dirt, and eventually have to pay back the debt by giving up our bodies."

"No funerals?"

"No… Only for the really important people. We have a little plot for past mayors. We grow carrots there."

"Blue."

I have no response.

"I said, we have funerals for everybody. Some people are burned up. But us in the Seam can't afford anything fancy. We just bury them and leave a flower."

"Why would you leave a flower?"

"_Forty-three_!" she suddenly screams, clutching the sides of her head with both hands.

"What? Forty-three _what?_"

"We leave a flower because… I don't actually know. An old tradition, I s'pose." She giggles. "Twenty-one."

"Twenty-one-?"

In a burst of giggly energy, Aislin throws both her arms around the back of my neck, hanging off me and pressing her wet front to mine. "You're red, Sparrow," she whispers with a giggle. "Nine."

I try to draw back, but she beats me to it, holding me at less then arm's length, our noses inches apart. Her gaze is narrowed again, studying my face in micro-detail. When she speaks, her stale breath wafts over my mouth.

"You frustrate me _so much_."

And then her entire body goes slack, eyes sliding shut and legs buckling beneath her. I bend over slowly, setting her down on the dry sand and prying her grip loose from behind my neck. She's asleep. Her breath comes in relaxed, even doses, chest rising and falling in blissful slumber.

Stepping back, I decide I don't like her meds. Because they do just as good a job of doping me up as they do her—tomorrow, I'll tie her to a palm trunk or something. Maybe knock her out. Gag her. Somehow keep her stationary and quiet. I don't look forward to it.

And I _really_ need to find my shirt.

* * *

**I am such a romance writer at heart. All this blood and action is fine, but it's the happy sappy stuff that really gets me.**

The trivia is going to go on pause for a week, while I try and figure out sponsor points for everyone... sigh. There's a lot of you (which is fabulous!) but this could take a while.  
Answer to last week's trivia question: I believe 13 tributes were remaining in the arena by chapter 13. And answer to the bonus question: The Maze Runner Trilogy by James Dashner. I always get annoyed when Fic writers plug other book series than the one their Fic's for, but really. They're great books (very Hunger Games-y), and very, very, un-Fic'd. I think the entire archives has like 10 titles.  
Just in case you're looking for a good read.

Don't forget the magic button right below this note. Reviews are my best friends. Figuratively speaking. I can't believe we're going on 200, and I absolutely read and enjoy every one! Just know that I do have a life outside of FF, and might not reply to your review, unless you ask a direct question that I can answer with something other than "you'll see" or "it's coming."

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy**


	19. Wasted

**Yes, I'm still alive. I know you were worried.**  
**But this chapter took for-_eva_ to write up, with so-so results... we revisit our mutt friends with Cal and the Careers.**

* * *

Giggling?

I've heard so many strange noises in this arena, but none so odd as this. A girl's shriek of pleasure bounced off the palms around us, and I watched as everyone's head twisted around to the sound's source.

"Ten girl?" Neveah asked gruffly, shoving the Eight girl back into her stumbling walk. James's head lolled forward onto Neveah's shoulder for a second, before the blond boy shoved him off. James groaned and tripped over his own huge feet.

"Learn how to walk, would you?" Neveah murmured under his breath as he stood the bigger boy up again.

"No..." Pearl's flawless face split in her trademark mischievous smile. "Can we go get her? Please?"

"If you want to split off on your own, be my guest." I gestured vaguely to the surrounding palms, acutely aware of how much stronger the salt was in the air, and the soft crushing of waves against stone.

Pearl's grin lengthened, her eyes lighting up in that feline-like way she got about her with an opportunity to kill. Smoothing her hair in one band over her shoulder, she spun on her heel and made to sprint off.

"But," I called at her suddenly. Her retreating back froze, fists clenching in annoyance. "Leave all your blades with us."

This had the desired affect; she returned to Neveah's side grudgingly, pouting like a small child deprived of a toy. "Next time," she murmured as another peal of laughter hits us. "Next time, she's mine."

"I thought this one was your's?" Neveah shouldered James out of his way to indicate the Eight girl. A long gash ran down her arm, a souvenir of her resistance to come with us. Thin hair curtained her downcast expression as the open wound bled freely. Pearl kicked her now and again, seemingly just because she could, but I could see the jealousy that flicked behind her rabid gaze when she regarded how little other wounds the Eight girl had. The blond didn't loose gracefully and had been an even huger bitch since the feast.

"Oh, she is," she said carelessly, tossing her hair behind her. "But she won't last much longer. Once we find these mirror-people-"

"Merpeople," I corrected stiffly, tilting my face back to absorb the afternoon light.

"Half-fish, half-human, a truly incredible muttation feat-" the Six girl's words were cut off with a long hiss of pain as Pearl slashed the back of one shoulder.

"You'll speak," she said lightly, stowing away her blade, "when spoken to."

Silent fury blazed for a second in the smaller girl's gaze, before she blinked harshly and redirected her eyes to the sand.

"We're almost there," Neveah muttered, directly to me, confirming my thoughts. The salt in the air tasted like home, and heightened my quiet excitement to see these creatures the girls claimed to have discovered.

"How far?" I asked the Six girl calmly, running my hands up and down the shaft of my trident and carefully watching the sand before my bare, tough-skinned feet.

"You think I'm telling-"

A sharp slap cut her off, and I didn't need to turn around to know that a Pearl-sized hand print was probably already pink on the girl's cheek.

"Just beyond those palms," she answered, resigned. "I'm surprised they aren't yelling at us."

"Yelling?" Mild curiosity colored Neveah's tone.

"Yelling, coaxing, threatening, all of the above," the Eight girl said, lifting her chin enough for us to hear.

"What-here we are." I couldn't help but allow the tiniest grin when the ocean came into full view and my skin was confronted with the spray of the impossibly blue water. A sidelong glance told me Neveah had a similar reaction, smiling tinily to himself and letting his gaze eat up the familiar sight.

A low whistle escaped from James's chapped lips. "Hella water," he slurred stupidly. I pointedly ignored this; he'd been in this half-conscious sort of state ever since Pearl had tried to heal his awful feast wounds with some kind of deodorant she'd found in one of our packs. Needless to say, it hadn't worked-backfired, actually-and though the cuts were beginning to scab over now, he still looked like someone had used him to sharpen their blades.

"There," the Eight girl pointed down the beach, the color rapidly leaving her cheeks. Why? I didn't have time to wonder, though, because a child's voice suddenly filled the air.

"_James_," it cried, sobs distinct in its loud breath, "_James, I don't know what's going on!_"

Confusion swept over me for a moment, as we all turned to James. He struggled to keep himself upright, but nevertheless his bleary gaze widened. "Sam!" he was suddenly yelling. "Sam where're you?"

His words were still hitched together, vowels slurring into one another, but the hoarse yelling and crazed gaze was enough to make Pearl inch away from his huge frame.

_"It hurts, James. Make it stop, make it stop!"_

"Sam!" James didn't need further prompting to pelt off down the beach, leaving Neveah to make a harsh grab for the Six girl, who'd tried to dart off in James's absence. She cried out as his tanned hand wrapped around her forearm and jerked her painfully back to the Eight girl. I noticed quietly how quickly his hand retracted from her skin, as if her cry of pain had physically shocked him-his nature of dealing with other tributes varied from Pearl's and James's almost as much as mine did.

With a heavy sigh, and a lungful of glorious salty air, I lead the remaining party off after James, my calloused feet falling into the indents his had made in the sand. "They mess with your head," I told Neveah quietly as he kept a steady watch on Eight and Six. "It shouldn't be anything too bad, and I trust we can keep better control than our lovely example." I nodded in the general direction of where James had taken off. Neveah nodded seriously as we rounded the edge of the beach.

His sharp gasp of surprise was the only warning I had before my eyes were off the sand and onto the sparkling water. The scene hit me at about the same time the cries did; nine horribly mauled and bloodied merpeople, bobbing in the water or basking on rocks, each with terror in their eyes and a solid metal cuff clasped around their scaly tail.

"Not real," I breathed in the salty air, now full of strained voices. My eyes jumped from mangled face to mangled face, not recognizing any but two girls that both wore the Twelve girl's face...

"_There you are, Cal, I thought I'd have to wait all day._"

My blood felt cold in my veins, and I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. Not real, I reminded myself sharply. He isn't actually here.

"_I'm in a bit of trouble, actually_," Jarvis' voice continued, hardly concealing the pain that raged underneath. "_And to be honest, it hurts like hell, and I'd be really grateful if_-"

I snapped my gaze open at the sound of something hitting the water. Scratch that-some_one_ in the water. The Eight girl made a clumsy dive into the spray, and I watched in bitter amusement as she propelled herself through the waves with the most basic doggy-paddle.

"Baize!" Six yelled after her, her hands to her cheeks. With a quick glance around, I took in how my other allies had taken this bizarre change of events. James seemed to be sobbing, kneeling on the sand and tearing at his own skin as if he wanted to peel it off his bones. Pearl just seemed confused, standing with slightly wet eyes and staring out to an extremely good-looking boy laying bare chested across one of the boulders.

"Baize, you did it last time!" Six yelled, even louder, after the swimming girl. "It's not him, Baize, it's not-"

But her cry was cut short as Eight changed directions in her swimming; she was now headed, not for the dark-haired man that called her name, but for the tan, blond-haired girl with sea chapped lips and District 4 written all over her. The merpeople lurched out to meet her as she passed, running their hands over her in an attempt to make her stop, to make her help them, but she apparently had an idea, and was sticking to it. Soon enough, she was clambering up the side of the blond's boulder.

"_Help me_," the mer-girl pleaded with Eight. "_Just cut me loose and I can go-just cut me loose and I'm free. To see my brothers. And parents._"

Eight's expression was stony, carefully constructed into a poker face. Her tank and shorts were drenched, and clung to her body as they dripped onto the dry rock's surface. Her mouth parted slightly to allow her ragged breath to come and go in uneven spurts.

"Litha!" Neveah suddenly roared, stumbling forward a few steps to the waterside. "Litha, jump! Swim!"

"_Nev?_" The blond mermaid twisted to scan the beach for what was evidently her brother. "_Nev, I think-_"

Eight drew a long blade from her waistband; something she'd either snuck past us or snatched off Pearl in her blind stupor.

"LITHA!" Neveah bellowed, stepping closer to the lapping waves.

"_Nev, I-_"

But her frail frame doubled over suddenly as she coughed blood through pointed teeth and into the water before her. The mutt toppled off the boulder completely, revealing Eight standing triumphantly, with her knife covered in a blue smear of mutt-blood.

A crushing silence swept across the water for a split second, in which Neveah and the Eight girl stared each other down. The very beginnings of tears were collecting on Neveah's lower lids, as were the beginnings of a fire in the girl's.

Then everything exploded at once.

Neveah made a leap for the water; barely leaving me any thinking time before I launched myself in after him. The merpeople were calling out twice as loudly now, but their angle had changed to pleading at the Eight girl to release them. I managed to water-tackle Neveah, forcing his head beneath the waves for just long enough for him to stop scrambling, then worked on pulling him back to the shore. We weren't fairly matched-his thick arms and impossibly strong grip made sure of that-but with some shouting in his water-filled ears, we were eventually back on the dry sand. Pearl didn't seem to have moved, and James looked unconscious-but the Eight girl was already at the tree line, breathing heavily and looking down at us all. The Six girl made a move to go after her, but was intercepted by the raging anger of Neveah, who caught her in his huge arms, pinning her to his chest.

"Does that hurt, seeing your family die?" Eight called bitterly down at us. "Does the hurt, watching them bleed?" She panted for a moment as the Six girl squirmed in Neveah's trap. "How can you live with yourselves..." she spat into the sand before her. When she looked back up, there were fresh tears of anger in her gaze. "Training for such pain! Your lives are wasted, you know that? Even if you don't die in here. _Wasted!_"

"Pain is temporary," Neveah growled back up at her, adjusting the Six girl to under one arm. "And Litha's fine. You killed a mutt. But she," he tightened his arm around Six, "is real." With an effortless twist of his arm, Six shrieked out loud-a gut-wrenching snap hit my ears-shivers ran down my spine, and I adverted my gaze to the sand as I heard the Six's body drop to the ground with a sickening thud... her canon ricocheted around the salty air.

The mutts, for once, were silent as the Eight girl turned on her heel and sped off into the palm wood without another word.

"We chase her, right?" Pearl asks excitedly.

"No," I answer firmly, wringing out my hair over my shoulder. "She'll be back."

I think I saw one tear find its way down Neveah's cheek-but it could just be a trick of the light.

* * *

**Analyse Fellows, District 6**

**Good-bye.**

Not my favorite chapter. Not through lack of trying; when I was sick, I tried to write it, but I started with Suzu's POV... before realizing, about 3,000 words later, that I already killed Suzu off. Of course, I went to see the new Harry Potter movie after that, came home, and began writing all your tributes with wands. Sigh. I'm not even sure I like this version, with Analyse's death, any better (I liked her a lot).

Anyway. If I count correctly, we're down to the final eight. Which means funtastic interviews with friends and family, right? And some alliance term breaking.  
If you created one of the final eight tributes, **please PM me** with information about any friends or important family member's information (just those who you put on the original tribute template). I don't need a thorough life history, just appearance, personality, and maybe strong connections they share with your tribute. Sense?

Review!

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	20. Sweet Spot

**Merry Christmas, happy holidays, happy new year... I have a resolution to update more often, so we should actually be able to finish this Fic up in only about seven chapters. Approximately. **  
**And now back to Arrett...**

* * *

I held my breath, willing my straining lungs to stay silent as I stretched for another arrow. Acutely aware of how close my fingers were to the bluish tip, I lodged it in the graceful arch of my bow and slowly, slowly took aim. My position, clasped around a palm trunk, left no room for unbalance or sudden movements—neither did my situation.

"Your hair is funny," the Twelve girl giggled from the clearing below; I could just barely make out her words over the babbling of the little pool beside the two tributes. The Eleven boy nodded vaguely, as if accustomed to her giddy behavior. I turned my arrow on his exposed back with syrupy slowness, watching his every move as he bent over a glittering silver pack in the sand. His ally sat on the pool's edge, watching him just as intently but without the lethal intentions my gaze hosted. If I could just get a clear shot to his chest…

My fingers loosened on the string too soon; he straightened up, a length of rope in hand, and I grappled to regain control of my weapon. A swear word that Rose would smack me for using crossed my mind as he made his way over to the girl and offered his hand. To my surprise, she took it eagerly—no trace of the killer from the Feast was relevant on her slightly dazed face. Had he drugged her? Hit her head? Maybe she had some sort of disease… Easy kill, easy kill.

But he didn't hit her, or inject any sort of poison into her system… his wary gaze traced her stumbling movements as he led her gently to the nearest palm and straightened her shoulders so her spine lined up with the trunk. He wasn't rough with her at all—a fact that disoriented me long enough to miss the clean shot to her chest as he stepped in front of her. He was… embracing her? No, not quite. Even more confusion hit me as I realized his arms were only around her because he was reaching behind the trunk, passing off the rope. _Tying_ her to it.

"It's all… feathery," she squeaked as his hands worked with the rope. She didn't seem to notice what he was doing, or if she did, she didn't care enough to make any move to stop him.

"Sure," was his preoccupied reply as he yanked on the two ends. She watched him with little interest as his fingers worked with the coarse material, coaxing it into a knot. Her gaze darted back up to his head.

"And reddish. Maybe blond? Oh! I know! _Strawberry_ blond." She beamed at her genius discovery, not really noticing the lack of reaction from her ally. The boy actually seemed like this was a regular routine for him. Like tethering a drunken-looking girl to a tree was just the same old, same old around here.

He sighed, stepping back to admire his knot. And giving me a clean shot to the girl.

I didn't hesitate this time, but let my ready arrow fly with maybe too much exuberance. The extra power my adrenaline gave it sent it flying way too fast, and just off enough to miss the girl's bare shoulder and lodge itself into a different palm a few feet behind her. Her grey eyes grew wide—the arrow, of all things, caught her attention. Unfortunately for me, the boy didn't miss it either. He switched instantly to defensive mode, eyes scanning the clearing around him and hands stretching and contracting in a need for action. I took advantage of the fact that he didn't bother watching the palms _above_ him, and had another arrow ready and flying in an instant. This time, I was lucky.

The Twelve girl cried out in pain as the arrow and its toxins lodged themselves into her thigh—she struggled against her restraints, trying to free her arms enough to dislodge the slim shaft. The boy's defense cracked under her cry, and he made the mistake of turning his back to me. I don't like back shots—the spine and ribcage get in the way so easily—but I had seconds before I was discovered, and a bad wound is better than nothing. I stretched around for another arrow, my arm jerking over my shoulder with the huge amount of adrenaline hitting my system, and—

That was enough to unbalance my delicate position around the trunk, and I was falling before I'd even registered being dislodged. I barely had enough time to throw an arm over my face before I pelted into the sand, the air knocked violently out of my lungs and pain splitting through the shoulder I'd landed on. Gasping desperately for the breath that didn't come, I scrambled to get my footing, concentrating on getting my feet beneath me—a million crazed thoughts and actions were flying through my brain so fast my limbs couldn't decide which to listen to, and flailed uselessly as I felt the almost undetectable vibrations in the sand that gave away the boy's approach. I tried to breathe—and failed.

_Okay. Stand up, Arrett. Stand up and run._

My knees scraped into the sand, desperate for traction.

_Take a breath. And stand up._

The warm tropical breeze teased my face, blowing gently against it as my lungs refused to bite. His footsteps grew nearer.

_Get up! Run! He's going to—_

All at once, my system snapped to attention. With a sort of detached fuzziness, I was on my feet and doing my best to run through the trees as air finally filled my body in unhealthy, gulping portions.

But sand was hard to run in, especially while half-dazed and panicking. I needed to go somewhere he couldn't; take advantage of the fact that I'm head and shoulders shorter than him. But _where_? Up another palm? Too slow. My eyes darted around my identical surroundings, trying to pick up on anything that could be used for cover. But my slow-motion running and shelter-hunting was way, way too slow… the Eleven boy's longer stride would catch up to mine any time now…

The ocean.

Nothing else could be so steady in its rushes and hisses against the wet sand. It had to be close—I didn't know what exactly I would do when I got there, but it seemed a brighter option than my current plan of running aimlessly through the trees.

With a hairpin turn that my pursuer didn't seem to expect, I chased the wet noises of the water to my far right. It couldn't be that far, not with the volume of the waves, and voices…

Voices?

Just one, actually. Rose's.

I shook my head as best I could as I continued my blind pelting, trying to rid myself of my big sister's voice. Probably just exhaustion. Or dehydration. Lack of air?

The palms were splitting off, and brilliant blue peaked through their trunks—

And then nothing but sunlight and water that glittered with shards of it. I couldn't help but stop and stare. The biggest body of water in Ten was the lake, which was actually just a glorified pond with a title, and it didn't begin to hold a candle to this. As far as I could see, it was just… _blue_. Sky and water, divided by the tiniest difference in shade. Breath heaved in and out of my lungs as the shock wore off, and reality came slamming back into the foreground. Reality in the form of… people with _fish tails_?

"_Arrett!_" one of them called in a voice that I would know anywhere. "_Arrett, c'mon, just swim out here._" It was Rose… but not. Awful wounds were scattered over her torso and shimmering reddish tail—the delicate-looking tissue of her... fins… was shredded, and her mousy brown hair was clumped and matted. Her dreadful appearance didn't affect her volleying tone. "_Still have your goat horn? Maybe it's your lucky charm. Come out here, little bro. Come out and cut me free_."

I teetered forward a few steps down the beach, taking in her dreadful appearance and the boulder that she was chained to.

"_Your odds aren't good on your own, little man_."

"_Sparrow!_"

My foggy thoughts paused as another magnified voice swept the beach. No matter. Rose was in danger.

"_Cut me free, Arrett. I can help you."_

"_Now isn't the time to be soft, Sparrow. I need you, let's go!_"

"_You know you can't do this alone_."

"_For me?"_

"_You're a dead man walking. The only twelve year old in the arena full of tributes twice your size!_"

"_You need me too. Aren't that good at subtlety, are you, Feather Ass?_"

"_I'll help you, just like at home. Hunting partners. Tributes can't be that different than deer, can they?_"

"_Please._"

"_C'mon_."

"_Please._"

"_Now, Arrett!_"

"_Sparrow, I—_"

"Stop!"

The haze of pleading voices shattered so suddenly my vision popped with the explosion in my head. This was a new voice. Not coaxing or begging, but commanding. Cool waves lapped over my bare feet as I realized how close I stood to the fish-people, and I turned around just in time to see the Eleven boy tackled to the beach by a blur of olive-y skin and black hair. The Twelve girl? But how—

"Stop it, _stop_ it, you idiot!" she yelled directly into his ear as he fought against her smaller frame. It didn't take her long to pin down his considerably larger body with hers. "It's not real! Snap out of it, Feather Ass!" Firmly holding down one shoulder with one hand, she brought the other back to slap his jaw. The resounding smack of flesh on flesh rang around the beach, and his flailing limbs finally settled in a stiff, resigned way.

"If I get up, will you run away?" she barked at him, still using the commanding, cold tone. He lay still.

"I asked you a question," she snapped with a rough jerk to his shoulders. I could hardly see his answering shake of the head.

"They're going to keep yelling at you, but you _can't listen_," she instructed firmly. "You're going to follow me back to—wait." A small, almost excited gasp crossed her lips as her head suddenly snapped up, gaze locked on—me.

I didn't need to tell myself how to move this time; I was scrambling up the beach as soon as her last thoughtful word was in the air. The palms seemed to get farther and farther away as my heart rate pounded even higher and feet dug into the sand. So close, so close—

Something heavy and hard as rock hit the back of my head, _hard_. The impact of the blow sent me toppling forward, and I tried to stretch my hands out in front of me to soften my blow, but they wouldn't listen… the little air that had made it into me was forced out again, and as suddenly as someone flicking off a switch, everything went black.

I tasted salty sand on my tongue and against my teeth. Listened to the waves slide against the beach. No fish people's screams, though. And nothing to see but complete and utter blackness.

"Is he dead?" an exhausted-sounding male voice croaked from a short ways away.

"He's not going anywhere," the girl replied bitterly. A few moments passed when all I could hear was the waves and the shifting of sand, as if the two speakers were moving. It was the boy who spoke first.

"Thanks."

"For?"

He sighed. "Saving my feathery ass."

Pause.

"I'm not sure they would actually kill you," the girl mused, voice void of any sort of emotion. "Mess up your pretty face and enlighten you of a few limbs, sure."

"God forbid my pretty face be messed up." He chuckled, a low, airy sound that lacked amusement. "But I'm pretty sure they'd kill me in an instant. They don't seem… merciful."

The girl grunted. Another pause.

"Clever design… luring in the prey with the person that kills them to see being hurt… and once they reach their mutt…"

"Bad news for us," the boy finished for her. A moment passed between them and the beach.

"Who's... your mutt?" he asked hesitantly, obviously aware of how he was treading over delicate waters.

"My twin," she answered wistfully. "She's the one right next to… um, me."

The longest pause yet.

The sand shifted, as if someone was standing up or sitting down.

"How _did_ you leave the clearing, anyway?" the boy asked around a yawn.

"Meds wore off. I found a hole in my leg. Untied myself, fixed up my leg issue, and followed the screaming." She ticked off the actions as if she was reading a grocery list.

The boy grunted. "Impressive."

"You underestimated me with that knot—I'll have to show you a sturdier one."

The sand shifted as someone approached my side, close enough that I could hear her breathing. "Do you have a knife?" Her question was so simple, so nonchalant, but my heart gave a horrible squeeze as I tried to move my limbs. They refused.

"Uh… yeah, I have your's." An almost inaudible _flick_ split the air, followed by the practically silent noise of something solid against flesh.

"Back to the clearing after this?" the boy's voice carried to me as my mind wheeled in panic. I felt the girl closer to me, her breath steady against the exposed skin of my neck. I knew what she was doing—enough time working with and slaughtering animals had taught me—she was searching for my sweet spot; somewhere that would guarantee a quick and clean death.

_I have to move, I have to run, I have to—_

"Yes," she answered softly. "I think there was something on his arrow… I'm fine, I'm fine, let's just get back quickly…"

The warm metal of the broad side of her blade pressed against my neck, measuring.

"A toxin?" the boy called.

"Maybe," she breathed. I felt her draw away. Poising her strike.

I held my breath.

* * *

**A single face floods the sky, full of bright green eyes, red hair, and a wasted life...**

**Arrett Hayes, District 10**

* * *

A/N: Good news: interviews are next.  
Bad news: points are sort of shot. My laptop crashed AGAIN, and I'd really rather not scramble to try and recollect them for a third time. Don't worry- if you've already spent them and have a gift on the way, it'll still be delivered. Sorry! To anyone who's thinking of writing a SYOT: good idea, would be to only accept a limited number of tributes. Bad idea is to have sponsor points, no matter how much more interactive it makes the story. Just sayin'.

I love my beta, Writting2StayHalfSane, and thank her for getting this done so quickly. She's... awesome.  
Remember to review!

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	21. Final Eight Interviews

**No, I haven't died. I know you were worried. Next best thing, though; finals are finally over, freeing up time and energy for finishing this Fic!**  
**Our first third person chapter... enjoy.**

* * *

"Hello, Panem, and welcome to our exclusive airing of the interviews with our remaining eight tributes' friends and families. Our very own Caesar Flickerman has jetted all over Panem to get these reports—How excited are you, Caesar?"

"Extremely, Wingnim. We have such an interesting bunch of contenders this year—and the finish is drawing close. How thrilling for us viewers, but how do the actual flesh and blood relations feel about it? Let's take a look at these clips to find out."

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

"Mr. and Mrs. Liner, correct?" Caesar asks politely, putting a hand on the bony man's shoulder. The four stand inside what looks to be a bead shop, with racks and racks of dangling jewels, a lush carpet, and small counter complete with an old-fashioned cash register.

The man shakes out from under Caesar's hand and dusts off his shoulder as if there is a foul substance there. "Yes," he answers curtly.

"And your name is?" the interviewer holds his microphone out to the fourth person in the shot; an extremely good-looking boy who looks to be in his early twenties, with chestnut hair swept off to one side and piercing green eyes that are well-acquainted with the camera. "Stitch. Pearl's boyfriend."

Caesar nods warily at this, as if he already feels sorry for the boy. "We don't have much time, so let's cut to the chase: as her parents, you must be so proud of how well Pearlescent is doing in the arena."

The shorter, blond woman leans into the mic. "Of course I am. She was honored to volunteer, I'm sure."

"And the proud father?"

"She's… alright. If she hadn't lasted this far, she would be disgraceful—she's just now reaching her ability level."

"If she hadn't lasted this far, she'd be dead," Caesar chuckles, but the three Ones don't seem to find it amusing. He moves on quickly. "And Stitch, how does it feel to know she's in so much danger?"

"I'm not worried about her. She's badass. And hot. And last night, when I was dreaming about her, I—"

"Obviously very concerned for her welfare, aren't we? Now, if you could each say one thing to Pearlescent right now, what would it be? Mr. Liner?"

"Work harder."

"Very motivating. And Mrs. Liner?"

"Well…" the woman faces the camera full on, as if Pearl is on the other side. Not in an arena. "I'd like to say that I love you, and miss you. I can't wait for you to come home, but if you could please stop throwing yourself at that Four—"

"And we're out of time. Thank you, Liners, and Stitch. Best of luck to Pearlescent!"

The screen cuts almost instantly to a new clip, this time in front of a concrete wall with fading graffiti. A small family is huddled next to Caesar; a huge, broad-shouldered man with the same greasy black hair as their tribute; a stick-like woman whose skin hangs off her bones like candle wax, with her arms protectively around a small boy, the embodiment of youth, who smiles up at the camera, transfixed with the lens.

"Mr. Clickit, how do you feel about your son being in the final eight?"

"Well." The man's voice is low and husky, like his son's. "He's a fighter, for sure. Don't be expectin' him goin' down without givin' it his all."

"Wouldn't dream of it. And Mrs. Clickit, it must be so heart-warming to watch all of his successes."

"Of course," her voice wavers and cracks a bit as she continues, "he's just like his father. I can't wait for him to come home."

"Any specific thoughts on his performance so far, Sam?" Caesar kneels to get down to eye level with the small, black-haired boy.

"The fishes were scary. It wasn't me—I was here. The fishes just _looked_ like me."

"Very clever design, aren't they? How do you think your brother is doing?"

The kid's dark brown eyes widen as he gazes seriously into the camera. "He's going to kill the pretty girl, and win."

"Is that so?" Caesar gets back to his feet. "Thank you for your time, Clickits, and best of luck with James."

The screen goes black for another second, before lighting up with Caesar, in the exact same suit, with neon green hair and lips, standing on what looks to be a dock, backed by the seemingly smooth ocean. A small family, obviously related by their identical tan skin and light hair, stands by him. The oldest man looks stiff in the way he holds himself upright, hardly leaning on the driftwood walking stick in his clutch.

"Mr. Bosun—Maris, is it?—could you maybe sum up a few words for how you're feeling toward your son right now?"

The man stares off into the sky behind the camera for a few moments, before squeezing the woman next to him a little closer to his side. "We're proud to have watched him thus far, and hope he makes it home soon. We need him around here," he adds with a half-hearted smile.

"Of course—you work on the bigger vessels, correct?"

The younger woman leans into the mic to answer, sweeping her bleached blond hair out of her face as she looks up at the camera. "I'm Litha, his big sister, and yeah he works with Crest and me on our boat, way out there." The camera zooms in on a harbor a ways down the beach. "He hauls all the nets and stuff while I drive. Crest helps, I guess, but Nev's an important link."

The shorter boy scowls a bit. "We're definitely missing him down here, though."

"Of course," the girl adds somewhat sheepishly.

"And Helene, Mrs. Bosun, if you could advise your son, what would you tell him?" Caesar draws the mic away from the siblings, letting it hover before the woman clutching the man's side.

"Well," she starts, clearing her throat a bit and brushing wisps of white hair out of her eyes, "I would tell him to stick with the other tribute from Four—she seems to know a thing or two. But not let any loyalties he forms in there blind him from the nature of the Games—he needs to stay on his toes."

"Of course," Caesar says with a nod. "Everyone in there is in it to win it by this point—it will be so exciting to name one Victor. Thank you, Bosuns, and best of luck to Neveah!"

Again, the screen cuts momentarily to black right before showing Caesar, identical to all the last clips, standing in front of a humble, small house, accompanied by two men and a woman—the elder man had a secure arm around the woman's shoulders, and the pair stood a little further off than the younger man.

"Mr. and Mrs. Claremont; Adam Liles. I'm going to be honest here and say that not many Eights usually make it to the final eight. How does it feel to see Baize go so far?"

"She is her mother's daughter," Mr. Claremont says in a low, deep rumble that matches his bulky frame. "So brave."

"Oh, don't be modest," Mrs. Claremont says, giving his chest a playful slap, "she has more of you in her than me. But yes, she's been so courageous over this whole event. We couldn't be prouder to call ourselves her parents."

"How touching," Caesar intones honestly, before holding the mic out for the younger man, whose gaze is locked on the pavement. "And Adam, do you have anything to say about Baize?"

"I…" his voice cracks, and he runs a hand through his short, almost black hair, shifting his weight. He continues slowly, as if thinking up each word before speaking. "I have a lot to say about Baize. She's… inspiring to me and everyone who watches her. I know—there are people who take her more sensitive outside as a liability, but… it isn't. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and I guess… I love her for that."

"And if you could say something to her right now?" Caesar prods gently.

"That…" he finally raises his gaze to the camera, his light brown eyes boring into the lens. "That I love her and can't wait for the wedding, and that she's doing an amazing job in there."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Caesar smiles, his and the camera's attentions caught by the Liles boy, zooming in on him to cut the parents out of the shot. "And how did you meet Baize?"

"We ran into each other—literally." He scuffs the pavement with his shoe. "At the market."

"Was it love at first sight?"

"If… if you believe in that sort of thing."

"And do you?"

"I didn't… until Baize. Not to sound—tacky—but she's the only one for me."

"Has the age difference ever been an issue for you two?"

"She's… out of school, and I'm only two years her elder. No, not an issue."

"Well I would love to stay in this lovely District and chat all day, but our time's up."

The camera cuts back to the broader shot of all four of them. "Thank you for your time, Claremonts," he shakes each of their hands, "and Adam. We're all eagerly watching Baize."

The screen cuts to three slim individuals, framed by a wooden archway and brilliant blue sky. The one adult is an angular woman with brown hair twisted back in a simple ponytail and dirt smeared across one cheekbone. The little tiny boy in front of her was obviously her son, while the older girl stood a little off to the side.

"Kailers. What a pleasure to meet you all. Emily, how do you feel toward your daughter now?"

"I'm, um, happy. And concerned for her safety. Those other kids are not kind at all."

Caesar chuckls. "Well said. And Emilius, are you watching your sister on TV?"

The little boy stares, transfixed at the camera for a moment before piping up. "She's a little scary." He giggles to himself, staring at the camera.

"She's doing very well," Caesar nods. "Any thoughts, Cassia? Being Sora's friend, you must have some opinion on her strategy."

"I don't think she has one right now," the girl states bluntly with a small shrug. "Go with the flow, sort of."

Caesar takes his time with the small group, but hardly any other emotion or information drips out of the dry conversation. He finally turns, slightly resigned to the camera and casts them off.

This time, the screen cuts to a narrow dirt lane, backed with an endless stretch of some golden crop that waves fluidly in the wind. Four children stand in a neat line next to Caesar. Two of them—both teenage girls—are identical in their appearances, with matching long, wavy hair the exact color of their brother's, as well as the same piercing blue gazes. The girl standing nearer to Caesar has a more confident way of holding herself, but the further one has much more expression to her gaze; she has an arm around the smallest boy, whose dirty blond hair brushes his shoulders as he eyes the camera in curiosity. The older boy stands furthest off from Caesar, his pale blond hair hiding his face as he watches the ground.

"How very nice it is to meet you, Kingstons, and I am so sorry your parents couldn't be here."

The more confident twin shrugs and tugs her sloppily cut bangs out of her face. "Work is work—but I'm sure we're all going to watch this tonight. Hi, mom!" she waves at the camera with a smile before her twin bumps her shoulder a little too roughly.

"And you are?" Caesar asks politely, steering the mic back to the first twin.

"Violet, but everybody calls me Vi. Not that you can. It's just, like, Lily and Sparrow and these two—"

Her twin bumps her again, efficiently shutting her up.

"And you're Lily?" Caesar moves the mic to the quieter twin.

"Lilac—that's just a silly nickname we toss around here."

Caesar chuckles. "My sisters call me Cece, so don't feel too bad about 'Lily'!"

The twins' laughter was obviously fake.

"And what's your name?" the interviewer asks the small boy, wrapped under Lilac's arm.

"Falcon!"

"Another bird, like your brother?"

"Yup. 'Scept falcons are big and strong, ad eat little birds like sparrows." He beams into the camera.

"Right. And you must be River, then," he addresses the lightest haired boy.

"Yeah."

"And how old are you?"

"Thirteen." His voice cracks over the single word, causing him to cough conspicuously and look at the ground again.

Caesar pulls back to his original position. "So which of you is closest to Sparrow?"

"Me!" Falcon shouts at the same time Violet says, "You can't pick." She shoots her littlest brother an exasperated look.

"We're a family; besides maybe Vi and me, there aren't any particular ties," Lilac pipes up diplomatically.

"And how do you think Sparrow's doing?"

"Great," Violet smiles. River snorts, attracting the mic again.

"He's doing better than he does here!" the blond says, half-joking. "He's got the freedom he's been harking about forever, he's got adoring fans, he's even got a girl—"

"And do we have any opinions about that?" Caesar asks, raising his shockingly green eyebrows.

Again, there were multiple answers. Violet exploded with "Yes!" as Lilac shook her head modestly, stately simply, "No." Falcon continued to beam at the camera.

"What do you think, Lilac?" He directs the mic back to her.

"I think—he's being stupid. I love him, but he's making a mistake with this girl who's already admitted herself to be a dangerous killer, and is crazy half the time. He'd be better off alone." Lilac nods a little, as if confirming the fact to herself.

"And what does your sister have to say?"

Violet pulls the mic toward her. "I'm proud of him! He's letting himself have a little joy—is that so bad? And anyway, Ash is _so_ pretty, and they're _completely_ adorable together. He's scoring points with this nursing her back to health thing—I just wish he'd kiss her already!"

Falcon giggles as if his sister had used a swear word.

"Conflicting opinions, huh? What about you, River? What do you think?"

"I think…" he bites his lip, obviously coming up with an answer. "If he's allied with her, he's allied with her for a reason. So I trust his decisions, and I think he's got lots of motives behind whatever he does."

"Well put," Caesar compliments with a nod. "But I'm afraid we're out of time. It was very nice to hear all your opinions, and best of luck to Sparrow—we're all rooting for him."

Once more, the brief shot of blackness is broken by a group of people—obviously a family, despite the range of appearance. The girl right next to Caesar smiles contently at the camera, without the gesture really touching her eyes—if it weren't for the corkscrewing hair, she could have passed as a carbon copy of Aislin. Beside her stands another dark-haired girl, but this one is much smaller and unsure in stature. She tugs a ringlet nervously, daring glances at the camera every once in a while. The two adults stand furthest away from Caesar and his mic, the man easily towering over his petite wife. His darker coloring clashes against the fair complexion of the woman, whose blond, curly hair was bound in a stubborn bun at the back of her head, her blue eyes keeping a watch on her daughters.

"We've been all over Panem, have met so many _interesting_ people, and now we meet our last crowd. All the way in District Twelve, I'm saying hello to our dearest Aislin's family. Phoenix, correct?" Caesar raises his eyebrows at the man, who nods and clears his throat, shifting from foot to foot uneasily. "How are you feeling about your daughter being in the final eight?"

The tall man coughs again. "We're worried, of course. But she's—_worth_ it, if you understand. She could very well win this thing. If… she keeps her head in the game, so to say."

The woman smiles. "She's too young for a boyfriend," she says sweetly, straight into the camera. Her oldest daughter tugs the mic toward her.

"I'm Skye, Schuyler actually, but _nobody_ can pronounce that, so I'm just Skye. Ash is my twin. I was her fish person, did you see? Anyway, I can't even really say how much I've missed her… we're usually joined at the hip, so it's hard."

Caesar maakes an odd sort of sympathetic noise. The blond woman pulls the mic back to her, leaning in while keeping her gaze on the camera. "She's too young for a boyfriend." She smiles.

"And who are you?" Caesar continues, ignoring the mother and kneeling down to the little girl's height. She burrows herself deeper into her sister's arms,

"Giselle," she mutters from between her hands.

"And how do you think Aislin is doing in the arena?"

"She's… good. Very good. And he's so handsome."

The camera stays on the little girl for another second as the mic is pulled out of the frame; the shot follows it back to the fair woman.

"She's too young for a boyfriend," she insists with the ever-persistent smile.

Caesar gives a slightly forced chuckle. "And…. Sky? Do you have any thoughts on our favorite romance?"

The girl seizes the mic. "He's _so_ cute—and was I the only one who almost fainted when he showed her his scars? How manly. Seriously." She sighs. "Ironic, isn't it, that the only guy that grabs my sister's attention in the history of the world is…. In there? What a shame."

"She's too young for a boyfriend!" the blond calls from just out of the shot.

"Even if your opinions are split, I can say for certain that Panem is just as in love with those two as could be. It was very nice to have a word with you—"

"She's too young—"

"—and we all look forward to the grand finale, when we will determine a winner. Thank you, Panem, and good night!"

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**Review. And remember my last A/N's... I think I mentioned something important back there. Too exhausted to check. Oh, and check out my profile for my new poll... I'd love your opinion...**

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy**


	22. Fear

**Alright, I confess. I sort of suck at New Year's resolutions.**  
**Back to Aislin.**

* * *

It's funny, how you don't feel a year older on your birthday. How you can't detect a difference in yourself on the morning before a catastrophe. Or when your only alliance is cut.

It was unspoken in the clearing that morning. What was clearly on both our minds.

The effects of yesterday's dose of meds clung to the edges of my consciousness in an annoying fog as I woke soundlessly and tested each limb. Legs were still attached. Arms worked. I sat up silently and testily rolled my patched-up shoulder. Still sore, but much better than it had been. My thigh seemed in working order, though slightly discolored and achy.

Not that it mattered. Today, I left the dead weight of my alliance behind. Ready to progress on my own. And win. Because really, with only seven other tributes out there, we were bound to be shoved together pretty soon. And when we were, one of those giant Careers would run a spear through Feather Ass, and I'd be free.

It wasn't because I'm weak—I'm not. I'd made multiple kills already, and they were power for me, baiting all those betters back home. The scraggly men who sit at Sae's bar and laugh and drink to the screen there and make petty bets on who'll come out alive… I bet I have their money.

Can't let the locals down, can I?

He was up already, leaning against a nearby palm tree and trying to figure out the water purifier with limited luck. His fair brow crumpled as his hands worked with the lithe thing, turning it here and there, testing it from all angles.

"It's upside down, Feather Ass," I called lazily, rolling to my feet and taking a moment to brush the sand off the dried blood on my leg.

He glanced up for a moment, then flipped the device and smiled thinly. "Right. Looks better this way, you're right."

I could almost see all the words that were dying to roll off his tongue, pressing against his cheeks. That's all he ever did—talk. Talk about his thoughts, talk about his plans, talk about his dreams. Ask questions of me that didn't garner him any useful information. Those few seconds of relative quiet were heavenly to my already overworked brain.

Of course, they didn't last.

"Have you noticed what's different?" His pale gaze was hopeful.

I grunted, making for our food pack to paw through the skimpy contents.

"We're not alone anymore."

My hands froze in the bag. A small kick of adrenaline hit my system with a sensation like swallowing ice. Why wasn't he going defensive? Where was his stupid whip? More importantly, where were my knives—

He chuckled at my tensed form. "Not _tributes_! Do you think I'd leave you this unguarded if we were actually surrounded?"

I opened my mouth to oppose his assessment that _he'd_ be the one protecting _me_ if we were attacked, but he didn't give me the air.

"Listen. Like you told me to."

I pressed my lips together, shuffling an oddly colored fruit from the pack. "What—"

"Just shush!" He smiled, though, as if enjoying a joke only he knew.

Shooting him a glare, I did my best to listen to the clearing. And it really didn't take long.

"They're birds," I breathed to myself, and suddenly the quiet song kicked itself to the front of my consciousness. I stood slowly, scanning the palm tops for any huge tropical birds—but the only movement up there was the slow swaying of the palm leaves and tiny, darting motions from creatures that would easily fit in the palm of my hand.

Feather Ass bit his lower lip, trying to hide his smile. "Aren't they pretty? And their song is just like the field birds back at home… Sparrows don't sing much, but they—oh, look!"

He pointed suddenly to one of the little birds as it took a nose dive out of a tree, sliding along parallel to the sand for a moment before sweeping gracefully up in an arch to return to his friends on the wide palm leaves.

"They do that," he continued, letting his scarred and sunburned face swell into a beam. Those light eyes of his lit up as he watched another complete a dive, stepping out from the shade of the palm to try and get closer to the bunch of them.

I shook out my ponytail with a sigh of salty air. Hygiene had never been a huge priority for me (germophobes don't make it long in 12), but the clumps of dried blood matting it, and the itchy sand against my scalp, begged for a bath. It took a lot of will power not to shoot a longing glance at the clear little pool to my left.

"Aren't they amazing?" he laughed to himself, towering over backwards to watch them sing. "They're puny, and somehow they make those songs so loud!" He gave another breathless laugh and ran a hand through his equally filthy hair.

"Probably eat human meat," I said, scowling at the little creatures as I took a juicy bite of the fruit. An explosion of sugary sweetness met my mouth, tinged with the bitterness of the skin. Not poisoned, I decided. Well, hoped.

"Nah—maybe they'll eat all these new sand flies for us. I think they're our friends."

"While you make friends with the locals, I'm going to bathe," I said firmly, taking another chomp out of the fruit before tossing him the half-eaten thing.

He raised his eyebrows, his grin slipping a little. "So we're okay with nudity now? When did this new law pass and where was I?"

I kicked sand in his direction, making him hop out of the way and hold the fruit up out of the sand's reach.

"You're going to _leave_, to go… hunt or something. And I'm going to get this crap off me." I pressed my knuckles against my hips defiantly, trying to make up for the foot of height he had on me.

He took a loud bite out of the fruit and shrugged, backing away. "I might as well try to tip over a palm with my bare hands. You can't hunt these birds." Another juicy bite. "And anyway," he said around a mouthful of fruit, "there're cameras everywhere. You sure you wouldn't mind one more pair of eyes among thousands?"

Idiot.

I moaned quietly to myself and tried to redirect my thoughts into arena mode. I wouldn't be able to defend myself as well in water… He'd just be a lookout. That's all. Just an alarm system.

"You," I spat, "are going to face that boulder and keep your eyes and ears out for _anything_. And you are going to stay there until I tell you to turn around. Understand?"

He smiled before popping into a mock-salute. "Yes, cap'n."

The smirk didn't leave the thin face of his as he crossed the clearing, almost excitedly, and took a stiff soldier-like stance in the position I'd directed.

After I was satisfied with his inability to see anything beyond his peripheral, I carefully slid my tattered tank over my head, wincing slightly as the motion tugged on my shoulder. He stayed exactly where I'd left him. With just as much caution for my thigh, I dislodged my shorts and helped my sore and abused legs out of them.

I jumped a foot when he spoke.

"Final Eight, huh?"

Deciding against my original plan of removing my pathetic bra and underwear, I took a half-skip across the sand before launching myself into the cool pool.

He must have heard my splash, because he chuckled. "Does it feel nice?"

"Wonderful," I answered sarcastically, though that wasn't very far off the mark. The water's sleekness was amazing on my grimy skin, such that I forgot I suck at swimming.

"Anyway," he called over his shoulder, still obediently facing the rock. "Final Eight. This is as far as the alliance goes, right? That is, if you don't…"

"Want to stick around?" I coughed a cruel laugh, rubbing the grit off my skin.

"Well, yeah. What I meant to ask was where you were planning to go after we… you know." He scuffed the sand with his bare foot.

"You think I'm going to tell you?" I called back over, trying to be as quick and efficient with my cleaning as possible.

"You're right. I was stupid to ask. But I'm sure you have a plan." He paused. "Does it include killing me?"

I paused in my process of scrubbing the dried blood off my shoulder and thigh. He'd asked about his life as easily as he might ask about the weather.

"No," I answered quietly before I'd really decided what to tell him. Stupid me. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

"Good. 'Cuz I don't really want to kill you, either."

I felt as if something heavy was pressing hard against my chest—I glanced down to check, but the side of the pool was a few feet away, and I was forced to admit the pressure was coming from the inside. I glanced over at my ally, whose thin back faced me like a little boy in time-out. He rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet and back patiently, and I suddenly realized that I really couldn't kill him. Not because he was my ally, not because I needed a lookout, but because I…. couldn't.

With one last rinse through my heavy sheet of hair, I tugged myself out of the pool and over to my clothes. Ignoring my wet body and the pressure building up in my gut, I tugged the filthy garments back on with a steady gaze at the tall boy's back.

"Let's," I started somewhat unsteadily, making him jump a little at how much closer my voice was, "just… stay allies. For a little while longer. Because… you seem to know about these birds." I gestured lamely to the treetops, smoothing back my wet hair and not daring to meet his eyes. "And that could be helpful. To me."

"Right. Okay. Sounds good." He shuffled awkwardly. Apparently it was a good time for a subject change. "Do you think Caesar has talked to our families?"

I shrugged, going back to my weapons stash to grab my three favorite knives. "Probably."

"Poor guy. My siblings probably attacked him."

I brought my handful of weapons to the pool's edge, skirting around the sloshy puddle I'd left when I'd stepped out of the water.

"Twin sisters, right?" I asked idly, dipping the first blade into the slightly fogged water.

"Yeah. And two brothers."

"Does everyone breed like rabbits in Eleven, or is it just you?"

He laughed. It wasn't meant to be funny. "Just us, really. Everyone else has figured out that more children equals more mouths to feed."

"And you're a thief." I slid my thumb up and down the blade, soothing off all the grime gathered there. Remains of fallen tributes fell away into the water.

"Just to stay alive. And hey, you've seen my payback. Justice is tough."

I finished up the first blade and laid it in the dry sand to soak in the sun. "Have I?' I called.

"Yeah, you… you know. My back?"

His what? "You're loosing it if you're suggesting I've seen justice on you somewhere."

"No, you… hey. Do you remember anything from when you were under?"

"Under-?"

"Your meds." I heard the shifting of sand indicating his approach as I finished the second knife, satisfied with its gleam.

"Do you remember anything from when you're taking your meds? My scars? The random numbers? The—" he cut himself off suddenly, pressing his thin fingers to his lips for a moment. "Anything?"

"I—" my snappy reply died in my throat. Because now that he'd mentioned it, I did remember stuff. Swirly, kaleidoscope stuff that meshed together in a series of colors and sensations… Puckered scars marking pale skin, bumpy under my fingertips… rope tethering me to a rough palm trunk, but I didn't mind, it felt nice… and the numbers ticking away in my brain, always counting down, always reminding me it was almost over. All the colors were magnified such that they hurt my head, as did any motion I made—the world spun in a crazy glow of sweet, artificial content.

"I don't remember anything," I said curtly as one last image hit my unstable memory. My arms were snaked around the back of a tribute's neck, my back bowed, my long, long hair tumbling down to the small of my back… smiling?

Feather Ass's face fell a little. "Nothing at all?"

"No." With a sudden urge, I picked up one of my newly cleaned blades and took a fistful of my dark locks. Just as I was about to run my blade through it, his hand caught my wrist.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Cutting the useless stuff off," I growled back, shaking him off.

"But," he sputtered, obviously whiplashed, "_why_?"

"Because I want to," I snapped, and hacked off the front chunk, leaving me with a handful of about sixteen inches of hair.

He looked aghast before taking a deep breath. "Can I please just get a reason for your sudden beauty change?"

He winced as I let another lock fall to the sand. Why should he care? "It's heavy and hard to run with. If I ever got in a fight," I gave a small grunt as another hunk fell away, "it would be a perfect handle for my opponent."

"It—I—" He took another breath. "You're right. Don't mind me."

"I never do," I barked before I could think. More hair fell soundlessly to the sand.

The lights behind those pales eyes snuffed in a second. The weight was back in my chest, pressing against my ribcage and limiting my breathing to shallow, unsatisfying breaths as I watched his face turn to the sand for advice, then back up to mine.

"I'm—" I choked over my reply, surprised that the pressure had spread now to the back of my head, clouding my thoughts like my medicine tended to. "That's not how I—"

"Don't apologize." His voice was cold, and suddenly the bird's happy song seemed to drain from our clearing. "You know you mean what you said."

He got to his feet and dusted off his knees with the same icy precision I'd only ever seen in him at the Feast.

"That's the thing!" I was suddenly gasping, my mind reeling to catch up to my tongue as I sputtered out, "I don't know!"

He paused in his process of walking away.

And I, Aislin, the warrior, the killer, the one who felt no fear at her own Reaping, was suddenly reduced to a confused mess of half-cut hair and a cold sensation in my bones that jerked my movements.

"What don't you know?" he prodded gently, the ice still hanging on the edges of his voice.

"I don't know who you are," I blabbed, "I don't know where we are, I don't know what's going to happen. Hell, I don't know who I am!" I gave a hysterical bark of a laugh. "Nothing scares me, Feathers. Nothing—I never get scared, or nervous, or-or whatever this is, that's Skye. She'd be your friend, you know," I added mindlessly, still taking air in unsteady breaths. "She's nice and talkative and somehow quietly charming in this stupid sort of way that makes you need to like her… she's just…" I groaned, tearing at the roots of my own hair and trying to recollect myself.

"I get scared all the time," he said quietly, taking a cautious step nearer. "I get scared stiff before trying to steal an orange. I get scared when I see Falcon's ribs. I get scared when Mom comes home an hour late."

I bent my head to my chest, the uneven locks filtering my vision. Get it together, Ash. What are you doing?

"Being scared isn't being weak. It's realizing where you need strength."

He stood in front of me now, and we both listened to my ragged breathing for a moment.

"You scare me." My voice came as a childish whimper that did not belong to the girl who'd volunteered herself for the arena.

"How could I possibly-?"

"There's this… thing. In my chest." The hoarse whisper wasn't mine, either. "It's big, and hard, and it hurts me, and…" I met his gaze hopelessly, hands falling from my head to meet my sides. "I don't know what to do."

I was so far out of my right mind, I wouldn't have been surprised if the sky turned purple and the palms began dancing. It was something even more insane.

Because that feather-haired boy was kissing me, and all that weight and coldness in my gut lifted and flew straight to my throat, and I wasn't hitting him and I wasn't thinking about the cameras, or Skye, or my next plan.

I was kissing him back.

As well as I could, considering I'd never kissed anyone before. All I could really think of was how my heart beat so fast and hard it almost hurt, and how his hands found wonderful patterns to trace down my back and along my waist, and how truly feathery his hair was between my fingers. It was me, I think, holding his face to mine. It was his wonderful lips forcing mine into movement, though, and I didn't care how chapped and cracked they were, because they felt amazing. As his kisses slowed and became softer and sweeter, my thinking trudged back into something comprehensible.

I tore myself away from him, sliding my fingers out of his hair and down his shoulders slowly. I swore I felt a shiver rack his frame briefly. He smiled down at me through short breath, the victorious grin lighting up his already gleaming eyes.

I met his gaze evenly, and all my minds agreed upon the next statement.

"You terrify me."

* * *

**We've reached cruising altitude... things can only get worse from here. Should be fun. Next chapter has a death I've been waiting for...**

**Review?  
****I need opinions. We're drawing to the close of this Fic, and I was wondering if anyone would be interested if I did a second? Not necessarily a sequel, but another SYOT in the same style. Good? Bad? Boring? Let me know what you think. Review!

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	23. Flyaway

**You know what really inspires me to write? Reading bad Fics. Seriously. The more Sue-ish the characters and cliche the plot, the better. Try it sometime.**

**On to Baize.**

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Cold tears drove thin stripes down my cheeks as I begged my feet to be quiet. Even the sand seemed loud in my newly musical environment; I tripped briefly over my own clumsy steps, sending a small flock of the new tiny birds fleeing. I took a shaky breath and watched them go solemnly.

They could fly away so easily. Just a little breeze and wing movement, and they would be off. I was jealous of those little specks against the white-blue sky—jealous! They had each other, they had a home, and they could just… take off.

I was being stupid. Of course they couldn't leave the arena; the barriers or force field or whatever would prevent that. Maybe I should consider myself lucky to be able to leave at all, dead or alive.

I shook out my filthy hair and tried to clear my pressured head. Without an alliance, I had adopted an annoying tendency to glance over my shoulder every few moments, expecting the blond Career to be stalking me with that knife of hers. My wrist brushed the hilt of my own weapon in a comforting chaff; I would be ready for her when she found me. And this time, I wouldn't hesitate.

Not that I liked the idea of killing anyone… the resounding snap of Analyse's neck echoed all my thoughts, leaving my stomach in a permanent twist and tears pricking the back of my eyes. Murder wasn't on my priority list, and yet the idea of the blond girl dead put an ease on the load of worry that stayed permanently perched on my shoulders.

I sighed deeply and scuffed the sand, trotting on aimlessly. I had long since accepted that I stunk at strategy. That was Analyse's area. I was good at following directions and fighting for what I needed. But making plans… not so much. My feet carried me in wandering paths through the palms, and I let my thoughts take the company my ally used to. The loneliness was bearable, I decided. And I'd made it to the Final Eight—only seven tributes between Adam and me. The thought send a tiny warm rush through my system and kept the darker ideas at bay for the moment.

And then I heard it.

Breathing. Low, heavy breathing. I froze, heart ramping up a few notches and mind abandoning all pretense of thought.

A tribute? No… The slow, steady inhales and gushes of exhales indicated lungs too large for even that Two boy. But what could that be?

With a sudden shot of courage, I turned slowly to slide into the shadow of a particularly short palm, eyes sharp for whatever the breather was.

The sand shifted in much noisier bunches, obviously under a ton of weight. And, I realized as every nerve of my system froze, there were definitely more than one of them. Fight or flight mode tore my thoughts into incomprehensible bits, bouncing off one another in their flurry of argument. _Run, Baize, run!_ versus _Just one peek—just see what they are. You have a knife and you're out of food…._

On any other day, in any other occasion, I would have been sprinting away long before then. But having experienced the arena, having adjusted to what I thought was the impossible, for the first time in my life… I stepped out from the shadows to face the beasts before me.

Horses.

That was what first leaped to mind when I was faced with all the huge creatures in the brightly filtered sunlight. Their size certainly resembled those of the muscular creatures back in Eight that made a living off hauling around raw fabric in thousand year old carts. As did their overall build; long, lean legs, round shoulders and haunches, and slender necks reaching down into sleek faces. But these were much lighter and thinner than the draft animals of Eight, and they sported skeletal features I was sure I'd never seen before then or ever would after.

Spikes, similar to horns, stuck out from all over their oddly beautiful bodies, barely contained under their thin translucent-appearing skin. They varied in sizes, too; tiny bumps dotted their nose and along the side of their heads, growing bigger around their eyes and along the crest of their neck. The largest were those that ran along their backs to the very end of their spines. The closer I looked, the more mortified I became; one of the huge things would hardly have to bump into you to flay you. The tips of the spikes along the side of their vast bellies glinted razor-sharp, a few of the tips having actually grown past the skin to expose bare bone.

But I couldn't look away. Maybe for odd fascination with such graceful creatures, maybe because all their eyes shone pearly white, lacking any pupil or iris. But I think it was their beauty that kept me entranced. Their stretched and sleek coats were the exact color of the pale sunlight falling upon us, giving them a sort of camouflage in this bright environment. Not quite golden, but not white either. Just… entrancing. Their lack of manes and tails didn't bother me at the moment; it took another second of staring before I snapped back to my senses.

They were mutts, just like the fish people. And the little birds that I was so jealous of. Just mutants created in some lab for the sake of my own death. Which, of course, meant it was bad news to be around them. I took a fragile step backward, realizing slowly that the small herd of six or seven of the creatures must have been following me in my meandering… in the next moment, I wondered if their meat was safe to eat.

I froze in my next step as one lifted its great head to stare with its vacant eyes right at me. Its thin nostrils flared in an almost silent gush of air as it readjusted its footing in the sand, translucent ears pricked my way.

_It's going to charge_, I panicked. _It's going to run one of those spikes right through me!_

I tripped back another step and winced, expecting my sudden movement to change the somewhat peaceful-aired creatures into vicious killers… but the one who had looked at me just shook out his muscle-y neck and went back to snuffing around the sand, sending little puffs of the stuff with every breath. Its buddies seemed just as indifferent to my presence; they look up at me a few times, but never made any move for me.

On principle, there's no such thing as harmless mutts. Ever. They must have some trigger or something that switched them into mad killing mode… But for the moment, they just snuffed the ground and each other, bumping into one another's spikes occasionally. One of the darker ones playfully nipped another's ear, earning a hearty head bump in return. Their razor spikes didn't seem to puncture their skin at all, though I was sure my own flesh would have far different results.

Just as I was beginning to let my strung-up nerves loosen the tiniest bit, a lethal slice through the air rewound them. Then a terrible scream, clearly not human, that twisted my insides and sent me stammering forward a few steps. Not that I could do anything, though; one of the great beasts was already crashing to the ground, head thrust into the air in its roar of agony. One of the spikes on its side glinted silver… a knife lodged between two spike-laden ribs.

I wheeled around for the attacker, already tightening my own grip on the single knife I had left. My pack thumped against my spine as I tried to see from every direction at once. The mutts' steps became more restless, but none of them made any motion to run for it. On the contrary, one of them was actually standing by his dead fellow's side, snorting around his spikes and silent side.

"Nasty things, aren't they?"

My heart gave an almost painful gasp as I leaped back, trying to face where the female's voice had come from. I felt like an idiot with my knife at the ready and no one to aim it at.

"I bet they could run one of those long ones straight through you… I've never really been a huge fan of horses."

Only now did she part from the shadows, revealing her own odd-shaped blade and hysterically twinkling eyes. There was something about her far-off smile that disturbed me… but not as much as the dried blood on her blade.

"I'm out of food," she says with the same mad smile, rolling her weapon from palm to palm. "Have you tried to eat one of these things?"

I held my grip on my only knife steady. Mentally, I warred over if I should risk throwing my only blade or wait until she drew closer.

"See, there are lots of horses in Ten. But we don't _eat_ them." She paused in her slow approach to cock her head at me. "You're not that blubbering Eight girl, are you?"

_Throw it, throw it, throw it, throw it_—I held steady. "You're the one who set off Analyse's trap," I stated coldly, willing my fear to stay repressed. The creatures around us watched in tangible unease.

"And _saved_ her from that Five freak," she replies indignantly.

"You killed that little girl," I retorted, softer now.

She gave a single laugh, edged with the hysteria that accented her strange words. "Welcome to the Games, wifey! Kill—"

"—Or be killed, I know." She was well within throwing distance now… if only she would lower her weapon just the slightest bit…

"Which means that now I have to kill you," she drawled, almost bored, "or else you'll kill me. And I have to win, you know. Arrett's dead, but Ten still has a shot at this."

And she threw her knife.

It was only luck that brought me slamming to the sand so quickly; my reflexes were less than cat-like, and in that single second I truly expected the blade to find its way into my chest.

_Adam. I'm sorry._

It didn't happen, though. The second I was on the ground, a resounding crack split the warm breeze, followed by a similar roar as the first one. The mutt closest to me staggered forward, forcing me to roll over in the sand to avoid being stomped on. It didn't fall, though, as the other had. As I rolled to my feet, I took in the Ten girl drawing another blade from her waistband and the lead beast steadying itself, a huge crack struck in one of its larger spikes. Her first blade lay abandoned in the sand beside the dead animal.

So they did have a trigger, these peaceful beasts. Apparently, they didn't appreciate having their bones cracked. With a few fruitless lunges of warning, the injured mutt danced nearer to the armed girl. She paled, but brought the second knife back to strike—

The beast lowered its head and smashed her aside with it. With a short and quickly cut off scream, she was thrown to the ground behind a palm.

A cannon confirmed my thoughts. I quickly turned away from the direction of what I was sure was a mangled corpse and focused all my thoughts on retrieving her forgotten knife. Two is better than one.

"I heard something!"

I froze as another unexpected voice, much closer than I would have liked, echoed around the palms. Only one kind of tribute would yell like that without the fear of being overheard…

"Shut up. It's probably nothing." This was a girl's voice, much higher and dripping with exasperation.

"No, it was a scream or something!" the original male protested.

"Just these stupid birds," the girl replied haughtily.

"I know a cannon when I hear one!"

"Will you two be quiet?" a much quieter girl's voice snapped. My legs were shot through with ice as I realized how close they must be. My spiky companions, however, didn't seem the least bit bothered.

The closest voice yet. "There's something here. Something… big." This was a new boy, whose low rumble of a voice was much softer in comparison with the first male's.

Careers? Here? I must be miles away from the shore! How could they—

But in the instant my feet remembered how to walk, the muscular blond boy broke into my clearing. His cold, watery gaze settled on me in surprise before he caught sight of the Ten girl's body. He tripped back a few steps, and I fought to keep my eyes off her. I did _not_ need another sickening image. In the next moment, he had his spear at the ready and was trying to watch all five of the mutts simultaneously.

"Are they dangerous?" he asked me quietly, as if ashamed to even speak to me, with the tiniest hint of fear lingering at the edge of his tone.

I clamped my lips together and drew back into the middle of the pack, careful to keep a safe distance from the spikes that shifted with the creature's every movement.

He raised his voice a notch. "Cal! I found… it."

In the next moment, the other three found their way to the clearing and took in the scene. The mutts. The body. Me.

The sight of the One blond struck up a foul taste in the back of my mouth. She gave a cat-like snarl in my direction, but the other, taller girl pressed a warning hand to her chest.

"They killed her," she said solemnly, glancing from the mutts to the body and back. "See that gash? Her blood's even smeared on the big one's… horn."

"So? We could take them—look, one's already down!" The blond made another move to come forward, reaching for the sash of blades across her chest.

"No," the blond boy piped up softly. "Upsetting them will only make it worse. They're bigger, stronger and better armed than us."

"But she's just standing there!" the blond hissed.

"We're not messing with any more mutts. As long as they're with her… we have other tribbies to hunt." The tall girl shot me one last calculating glance before turning on her heel and leading the boys out of the clearing. The One girl lingered a moment.

"I will enjoy killing you," she said matter-of-factly.

I was suddenly thankful for the labs that created my guards. And the birds.

The flyaway birds.

* * *

**A face in the sky. Something rare nowadays.**

**Sora Kailer, District 10**

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So the 10's are out, and we only have seven tributes standing. Who would you like to see win? Mention him/her in your review and I just might listen. Don't forget to answer the poll on my profile!

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	24. Crash and Burn

**See, I can update. I'm not _entirely_ hopeless.**

**Finally, more death. We visit Cal.**

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"You're weak!" the greasy black-haired boy called after me as I picked my way through the palms. "We could have easily taken them!"

I didn't reply, but took a deep, centering breath and tried to repress my frustration. He'd be gone soon. _Very_ soon.

"Last time you tangled with mutts, you were left in a blubbering heap," Pearl spat at him, trailing along in back. "Just thought I should remind you."

"Where to now?" Neveah asked quietly at my side. His watery blue eyes trailed his own flaking hands as they cleaned off the head of his spear.

"I'm questioning how far this alliance of ours goes," I answered coolly as James took a swing at Pearl, earning a feline-like hiss.

"I can't turn my back on you two for five seconds," I called over my shoulder patronizingly, "without you ripping each other's throats out."

"All the better!" Pearl shrieked, one of her serrated knives gripped firmly in her pale hand. Her knuckles shone white through the thin skin. "Just let me kill him already and get this silly pretense of an alliance out of the way!"

With another breath, I ploughed onward, Neveah keeping pace easily with my long strides.

"I thought it only lasted to the Final Eight," James growled.

"And we're down to seven," I answered calmly. The blond girl and huge boy fell silent for a moment.

"Then I can just leave?" Pearl squeaked in pleasure.

"You could," I reasoned, "but you'd have the three strongest tributes on your heels."

"Two," James coughed. "I'm off to rip that girl's throat out."

"And two is twice as many as one." I stepped carefully over a horizontal trunk, noticing how black flecks were mixing in with the powdery white sand.

"So," James sputtered, marching to keep up with my and Neveah's huge strides. "So...so say I stay. Then what?"

"We'll get rid of Eleven, Twelve and Eight."

"But what about after that? When it's only us three?"

"Then we'll know that the three strongest and cleverest tributes have deservingly made it to the top three. And the best will win." I shifted my trident to the other hand, comforted by its weight and easy balance.

"I'll stay," Pearl sighed, resigned, as she restowed her blade.

I stopped to raise my eyebrows at James.

"I'm staying, I'm staying!" he insists, hands up in mock-surrender. We continued at our brisk pace for another few moments before Neveah drew in closer to my side, his gaze locked on the sand and lips hardly moving as he softly spoke. "We get rid of them tonight?"

My nod was hardly a jerk of my chin.

"And where are we going now?" he asked, just as seriously.

"The cliff."

I take his crumple-browed silence for confusion. "Copper left a trap up."

"What?" he hissed back, earning a smack to his chest from the back of my hand.

"Be quiet! Dumb and dumber need to be happy and oblivious. At least until tonight."

His lips parted to say something, then closed again, before he continued. "I thought she'd lost all her traps and taken down Three's?"

"She did. But I asked her to leave one."

"Why?"

White and black particles rose from each of our steps, ash mixed with sand. I surveyed the blackening palms around us before refocusing on the huge area of cleared forest ahead; the few palms still standing were compiled of delicately packed ash; the rest, lying along the ground like downed soldiers.

"So this is where that fire was, huh?" James crowed, bending back to admire the cleared area. "Impressive. We should have thought of that. Would've been a good tool, cap'n!"

"Keep it moving, Clickit," I called back before taking a hold of Neveah's arm and pulling him onward.

"I told her to leave one because…" I glanced over our shoulders, confirming the fact that our two other allies were completely distracted with the fire-site. "I thought I might need it. Sometime."

"Like now," he said softly, nodding to himself. "Smart."

"No, it's just sense," I muttered back. "That's every tribute's flaw; they don't plan for the future, being so caught up in their petty troubles of the moment. You just have to _think_." I pulled my pack up higher on my back before turning around. "Are you two coming?"

Pearl trotted over to us at once, fingering the handle of one of her knives. "Callista—my friend. D'you think we could hunt tonight? Like, for real? Because there's this thing I have with that Eight bit—"

"Not tonight," I answered firmly, already striding away from the mess of ash and fried palms. The cooked smell lingered in my nostrils and in the corners of my eyes, even as we merged with the clean white sand.

"But—"

"Not tonight." My harsh words silenced her back into her regular pout. With a little skip, she came up alongside Neveah. "Nevie? Do _you_ think we should hunt tonight?"

"Don't call me that," he growled, his attention unwavering from the space ahead.

"Surely you'd like to get more kills under your belt," she crooned, her fingertips brushing his thick wrist for a moment. He smacked her off without hesitation. "Because really, you've only made… one kill?" She shook her head. "Pity. You have so much more potential than that."

"Shut up!" he snarled, his gravel-y voice whipping out at her in its entirety. She shrank back a bit.

"Save your pretty face for a boy who cares," I advised the blond girl, watching a vein throb in Neveah's jaw. Not that I really cared if he was annoyed, but if she went any further I was afraid he might just kill her now. Which I couldn't let happen. Luckily for me, she redirected her attention to the long sash of knives across her chest, admiring each one in turn with a far-out sort of gleam to her sharp blue eyes. Her expression reminded me painfully of little Leita examining her new dress on Reaping day… she'd been so pleased to be able to own a piece of clothing that her sister hadn't worn already. I smiled thinly to myself as I remembered how both of their faces had lit up when I'd brought home the dresses... of course, Val was far too concerned with how _I _would look to bother with her own outfit. She'd spent three hours sewing the huge blue bow to the hip of my dress, convinced it would make me look amazing. And it did—when I was up on that stage, I knew every eye in Panem was on that bow. Because really, there's nothing to read about my face. Just determination. And well-planned victory.

Not only had I planned for the reaping, but these Games in general. And, I realized with a smile, everything was going perfectly. My angels would get the life they deserved—even if it meant I had to put a trident through Neveah myself. Jarvis' glasses would fall off as I stepped off the train, like they do when he smiles really big. My father might even be sober enough to welcome me home… but more likely, watching my arrival from the TV set at the bar, completely senseless to the fact that his eldest daughter just became Victor.

No matter. It's the girls I'm doing this for, I told myself resolutely. They can make something out of their lives. They can reach their full potentials. And we can live a life void of all worry that there won't be enough food, or the old roof might finally crash in, or that our own father will lash out in violence any second. It will just be us girls. Living. For real.

"Where is it?" Neveah muttered under his breath, weaving around a particularly thick palm.

"Where's what?" I stammered back before mentally slapping myself back into attention.

"The trap?"

"The foot of the cliff."

"What should I look out for?" he asked quietly, his gaze already sweeping the sand for some sort of deadly apparatus. I changed hands for my trident again.

"I'll… tell you later."

A flash of doubt hit his watery eyes, but one blink washed it away. "Right. I'll just be prepared. What's our signal?"

Pearl shrieked in frustration behind us, promptly followed by James's roar of laughter.

"He put _sand_ in my _hair_!" she screamed, hands already trying to beat the stuff off her scalp.

I leaned back toward Neveah, keeping my lips stiff and expression uninterested. "I will drop my trident," I murmured slowly and clearly, as not to have to repeat it. His nod was hardly noticeable. With a bracing breath, I observed the palms around me, suddenly acute to how familiar they were. Sure enough, hardly fifty yards away the purplish face of the cliff bore down on us, casting a huge shadow over the sand.

"Are we even _close_?" Pearl's voice cracked up an octave, sounding almost close to tears. Although that was highly unlikely—the likelihood of Pearl crying was matched with that of all the tributes in the arena suddenly dropping dead. Not that that wouldn't be nice…

"We're close," Neveah coughed back, rubbing the stubble on his angular jaw thoughtfully. His tanned brow creased.

"Something on your mind?" I asked airily, feeling like that was the leaderly thing to do.

He grunted and ruffled out his filthy hair before plastering on a forced grin. "What's the date?"

I hid any surprise his question had evoked. "Um… the twentieth?"

He gave a humorless laugh. "Wow. That came fast."

I watched the approaching cliff warily. "Special day?"

"My birthday. I'm nineteen."

My legs stopped their pacing before I'd told them to. He glanced back at me questioningly.

"Happy birthday," I muttered stupidly, striding up to keep pace with him.

"Not really," he said under his breath, gaze glued to our bare feet and the sand. "I've had better."

"Understandably."

We walked in silence for a few moments, moving under the shadow of the huge rock. "So… you aren't technically allowed to be here, then?" I asked, studying his slightly dazed expression.

"Your age only matters at your reaping. They don't really care after that."

My hand was on his arm, pulling him gently to a stop. His watery eyes met mine. "I really am sorry," I said honestly.

His head suddenly snapped back, face up to the pale sky and broad features masked in shadow. It only took a few seconds to see what he watched so eagerly.

A single silver parachute floated down to us, tied resolutely to a basket woven with what I recognized as strips of driftwood. Neveah stretched his arms above his head with a sudden whoop of joy, snatching at the air in a strangely child-like fashion that tugged at the edges of my lips.

"It's bread," he breathed, having finally grabbed it. The deflated parachute wrapped the two loaves like a blanket, but did nothing to hide its fresh-baked scent. The coarse chunks of sea salt scattered along their surfaces marked them with home, and a single piece of paper stuck out from between them.

Neveah plucked it out gently. "It says happy birthday," he said quietly, eyes alight with a renewed joy. "Someone out there is sponsoring us, Callista. They know one of us is going to win this thing."

I quickly threw the edge of the parachute over the loaves to conceal them completely. "Someone out there is sponsoring you," I corrected him quietly, keeping my gaze over his shoulder on the thoroughly distracted Pearl and James.

"There's two!" he insisted as I continued walking toward the cliff. "Even if it's my sponsor, they're looking out for you, too."

"Let's save them," I proposed quietly, "for breakfast tomorrow. In celebration."

Understanding dawned on his lit-up face, dampening the light in his eyes slightly. He nodded solemnly.

"Where are we _going_?" Pearl whined from a ways behind us. "Let's at least take a food break!"

"Almost there," I shouted back blandly.

"How much further could we possibly go?" James demanded. "We're going to run into that rock!"

"Exactly," I murmured to myself.

It only took ten more minutes of hiking to reach the smooth face of rock, where the sunlight was so scarce it could be mistaken for nighttime. I threw my pack down at the base. "Settle in. Eat. Then get some rest; we're hunting tomorrow."

James crowed in exhausted joy, his pack joining mine in the sand. "Took us long enough. You sure there isn't a back way, cap'n?"

I threw a granola bar at him. "Shut up and eat."

He ripped a huge bite out of it, forcing his words past his mouthful of food. "Aye, aye, cap'n."

Pearl picked miserably at an oddly colored piece of fruit. "What if it's poisoned?" she moped.

"Then you'll die," Neveah answered satisfactorily. His brighter attitude was too obvious; I shot him a warning glance.

She glared at him and took a tiny bite.

"'Oo we huntin' tomorrow?" James garbled through his food. Just for me.

"Eleven and Twelve are together somewhere near here," I informed them, business-like. "And they're together."

"Lovers in paradise," Pearl laughed, a slightly hysterical tone hanging on the edge.

"We have no proof of that; and even if they are going for that angle they're smart," I snapped back. "Sponsors will love it."

"Which means we have to get rid of them," Neveah nodded quietly.

"Right. But it needs to look like we had no choice; we can't become the bad guys who killed both Romeo and Juliet."

Pearl's brow crinkled. "Who're they?"

"Romeo and Ju—Shakespeare? The playwright?" I prodded mindlessly. She stared back at me, obviously completely lost. "Do you even go to school? I muttered.

She opened her mouth to oppose, but I waved her off.

"If we can't find them, there's still the Eight girl. Those mutts won't last forever; nor can they be indestructible. We just have to find a… sweet spot."

"She's mine!" Pearl piped suddenly, fingers reaching instinctively for the closest knife, which happened to be covered in fruit juice. She crinkled her nose at the sticky goo now covering her palm.

"I wasn't at the feast, but I hear Eight knows her way around a blade," I continued, trying to make it look like I was talking to the whole group while my intentions were solely for Neveah.

"Yeah." James barked a laugh. "Nearly took Pearl's head off!"

Pearl threw her fruit's pit at him, bouncing it off the back of his head. He rubbed the spot warningly, obviously restraining himself from leaping at her right then and there.

"Which means," I raised my voice slightly, "that she's actually dangerous."

"No more than Twelve, though," Neveah reasoned. "I think we'll just have to disarm both." He didn't bother trying to talk to either of our toddler-like allies.

I nodded silently. "That's it," I announced, retreating slowly to the nearest palm. "We'll need the sleep in the morning."

I shot a meaningful glance at Neveah, silently praying he'd follow my example. When he didn't move, I patted the palm trunk quietly. With a too-obvious expression of realization, he drew back to another palm across from mine and leaned against it as I did. I doubted he even saw the thin wires snaked around it. Then again, he hadn't noticed the netting under our allies' feet, either.

By another small miracle, both James and Pearl decided to stretch out in the sand where they were, five or six feet away from either Neveah or I.

"I'll watch," I threw in unhelpfully. James grunted, watching the bright sky. Pearl rolled onto her side and pulled her hair over one shoulder; James' gaze shifted from above him to the gap between the hem of her tank top and waistband of her shorts. I rolled my eyes to myself. Sure, he could fight with her all day, but all he wanted to do when she wasn't watching was check her out. _Such_ a pig.

I gave them five minutes, then ten. The fingers clutching my trident were suddenly jumpy and nervous, and adrenaline hit my system in a warm blaze. I was ready.

I let my weapon slip from my fingertips and fall heavily against the ground.

In the same instant, I drew the small knife I'd snatched off Pearl from my pocket and leaned down to slash the hardly visible wire running from the sand to the trunk. Another sharp _twang_ told me Neveah had found and cut his as well.

No sooner had I straightened up than Pearl's grating scream cut the air, and she and James were hoisted off the ground by a tightly woven wire mesh that bit easily into their skin. She screamed again as James fell up against her.

"What is this? What is this? _Get off me!_" She kicked and slashed out at the bigger boy before realizing that her sash of blades lay in the sand fifteen feet below her.

Neveah let out a low whistle, coming slowly to my side while admiring Copper's handiwork. I sharply remembered the bright afternoon when the little girl had shown me this thing… she'd been so excited. Her little fingers could make almost any material into something deadly, and this… had been her crowning achievement.

"Do we just let them hang there?" Neveah asked me, slightly breathless from his own adrenaline rush.

"No…" I searched the sand briefly for the slightest shimmer of bronze before plucking the stray wire off the ground. It led straight to the net in which our former allies were now ensnared. Droplets of blood fell from their many cuts and slices as they figured out that staying still decreased their wounds. James hissed in pain as Pearl's foot shifted. He swore loudly. "Stay still, you idiot!"

She stopped struggling instantly.

I held up my end of wire for Neveah to see.

"What's that?" he asked quietly. "A lever? A slip-knot release?"

"A fuse," I murmured almost silently, gaze locked on the tiny, innocent wire. Neveah paled slightly, but nodded and retrieved the box of matches from one of our many packs.

"No!" Pearl shrieked, real tears streaking her cheeks. "Please, Cal, _no!_"

Neveah held out the small pack. I took it as if it were a live grenade. He took hold of the wire between two fingers and stepped back solemnly. I saw how his gaze struggled to stay on me and away from our prisoners. His lip trembled slightly—though not in fear or sadness. Pity flooded his eyes.

I struck a single match, bringing a tiny spot of life to our dark woods. Neveah's features were thrown into sharp relief.

"Is there any other way?" he whispered hoarsely. I knew he wasn't unaware of his own answer.

I shook my head the slightest bit and lowered the match to the wire.

The flames spread instantly, eating away the fuse and biting on to the net with deadly agility. I lowered my gaze to the sand and worked quickly and efficiently, snatching the two closest packs and my trident. Neveah watched me warily.

"Where are you-?"

"I'm sorry," I croaked, rushing up to face him in the dancing light of death. Before he could say anything else, I brought the butt end of my trident down, hard, on the weak point between his shoulder and neck. He crumpled immediately.

Without another glance at the firelight-flooded clearing, I darted off into the woods, one of home's loaves clasped under my arm.

The shrieks and roars of agony followed me, even as the fire's glow faded away.

Burnt flesh filled my mind and nose, and cannons rang in my ears.

* * *

**No tears are shed for the two faces that fill the indigo sky.**

**Pearlescent Liner, District One**  
**James Clickit, District Two**

* * *

Remember to review. They really truly make my day and inspire me to keep the updates coming!

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	25. Scissors

**And I thought I was getting good at updating! Gah. Oh well, it's here now.**  
**I think this one took longer to write because... you'll see. We visit Sparrow.**

* * *

Bright morning sunlight cut my eyelids, tinting them red. With a small groan, I crunched up into a sitting position, doing my best to stay silent and keep the slumbering black-haired girl asleep. After rubbing my tired eyes into focus, I took a deep breath.

Two cannons yesterday. We were down to the final five of us. _Five_. Victory was so close. Only four tributes stood between me and home… and three of those wouldn't be that bad. But the other…

I watched her side rise and fall gently, her choppy black mane splayed out in the sand behind her. Carefully, slowly, I stretched out my hand to touch the silky stuff and ran my fingers through the longer bits. She sighed softly. "You're really not too good at being stealthy."

"Good morning to you, too," I smiled as she rolled over to face me. Sand clung to her long eyelashes and the cracked skin around her lips. The pleasantly warm presence that had taken residence in my pulse ever since she'd kissed me beat happily as I leaned in to press my lips gently to her forehead.

She sighed again and leaned slightly against my chest. "Two deaths last night."

I grunted a reply, cheek pressed against the top of her head.

"Two Careers."

She smelled like sweat and blood and soiled cotton, but I couldn't care. I had someone to hold in hell. I was the luckiest guy in the world.

"Disappointing…" she murmured to herself thoughtfully.

"Why?" I asked airily, completely caught up in the feel of her in my arms.

"Remember that Nine girl?"

I nodded against her hair. "The one you almost killed?"

"I would have," she protested quickly, her usual self breaking through her morning fogginess, "if that stupid arrow hadn't gotten her. Anyway. Not my point."

"And what is your point?"

My forearms lined up around hers, my hands settling her fingers as they began picking restlessly at her nails. She rested them back against my palms. "I told her something before she was killed. Told her I'd get the Two monster."

I shrugged against her back. "He's gone anyway. Didn't sound like a quick and clean sort of deal, either."

The slightest shiver racked her spine, and I did my best not to recall how the palms had echoed with the roars of pain last night.

"Someone attacked the Careers," she said resignedly, pulling away from me and rolling to her feet.

"We don't know that for sure," I countered with a lazy stretch.

"Two of them died in the same night."

"But two are alive. Maybe even wounded from this vicious killer."

She shot me a patronizing look and snatched one of our packs off the sand. "Someone's out there who's got a weapon strong enough to challenge the strongest alliance in here."

I yawned around a nod.

"Doesn't that bother you?" she fretted, tossing me a bag of some sort of food.

"It could have been luck—maybe they died accidentally. Maybe their attacker isn't actually all that strong. Or," I popped open the bag, "maybe it was a Gamemaker trap or mutts or one of the thousand variables that could go wrong. The audience is probably tired of them."

"The audience loves the Careers," she hissed back, as if to keep her voice low enough so that the cameras wouldn't hear. "If they aren't safe, who is?"

I got to my feet slowly and held out my pack of what tasted like cardboard out to her. "I think it's granola, but it could be dried apricots."

She took a handful warily, brow still knit in worry. I offered a relaxed smile and pulled her playfully to my chest. "Don't worry so much; we've got each other and only four tributes to get rid of. Hell, they might just die amongst themselves by the time we leave here!"

She munched her granola/apricots solemnly as I let her go.

"Can you smile?" I peered under her uneven bangs. "For me?"

A weak grin tugged at the edges of her lips. "This isn't a place for smiling."

"Yeah, well, it's not a place for kissing, either," I laughed, planting a sloppy kiss on the corner of her mouth. To my surprise, she slapped me away. For the first time that morning, I fully met her gaze.

Her deep grey eyes were frosted over, shielded with despair and a certain stubbornness I couldn't quite place. Some of the color was gone from her cheeks, and her whole face seemed thinner and wrought with worry.

"Ash…" I said gently, lifting a hand to gently brush her straggly hair out of her eyes. She smacked it back and took a few steps away from me.

"Sparrow," she said quietly. And then I knew. Something was amiss within her; something that choked her voice and stole the warmth from her gaze. But it was my name that frightened me most—it was still uncomfortable on the lips I was recently acquainted with. A stranger to her tongue. Her mind. Her heart.

"Don't touch me!" she insisted as I realized I'd reached out to her hand. "Just… don't."

"What's wrong? Did I do something?"

"No, no, it's not you…" She coughed, eyes stuck on the sand at my feet. "Well, yeah, it is, actually."

"Look, I'm sorry for whatever I did, but I'm just really confused now and wondering if maybe you could give me a little warning next time," I joked half-heartedly.

"Next time?" she asked the ground, bitterness biting her tone.

I stood in silence for a moment, feeling the warmth she'd loaned me seep slowly out of my system. I rubbed my hands together feebly. "Please tell me what I did."

She tilted her head back to fix her solemn gaze on the palms, swaying gently above us. A slight shake of her head brushed the stray tendrils of inky hair out of her face before she spoke. "You… kissed me."

I nodded, still thoroughly confused.

"And… I've never been kissed before." Her voice cracked, reminding me of how this bizarre situation mirrored that of a few days ago.

"That's alright," I smiled softly, hoping against hope that I could retrieve her from wherever her mind was taking her. "It was the first kiss of mine that really counts."

"But you've kissed other girls, right?" she asked the palms.

"Well… yeah. But they—"

"Aren't like me, right."

We stood in silence. "Why are you asking me this?" I asked desperately, the cold now biting deeper despite the warm breeze. "It doesn't matter!"

"Did any of… those girls… ever give you this thing? In your chest?"

She read my confused expression correctly. "Like it's hard for you to breath and all your air is rushing to your brain and you could just…" she lowered her tone, "… float away?"

I thought hard before answering. "No… not in the same way."

"I can't stand it," she hissed suddenly, wrapping her arms around her middle and leaning forward slightly. I resisted the urge to take hold of her upper arms and steady her, knowing it would only upset her more.

"Why are you mad at me?" I prodded gently after letting her breathe a few moments.

"Because you make me feel like that," she confided quietly. "And I can't… think. A lot."

I could have puked, with the stir of uneasy sensations battling for priority in my gut. She couldn't be serious. Was she on her meds? Did she take them early that morning?

She took a bracing breath and drew herself upright again, only the faintest red outline around her eyes giving any hint she was anything less than fine. "There are only five of us left," she informed me seriously, reaching for something at her waist. "And only one of us can win."

In one fluid motion, she pulled her long knife from her waistband and held it out toward my stomach formally. The hilt faced me.

My horrified gaze swept from the weapon to her stony expression and back.

"I'd like it to be you," she said quietly.

"No," I breathed, mind scrambling to grasp what she was asking me to do. "You can't ask me to do that—it should be you." I pushed the weapon back at her.

"If you don't," she said bracingly, cold eyes still on mine, "I will."

"You can't," I mouthed, my voice finally failing me as tears clogged my throat. "Be reasonable, Aislin! I won't let you kill yourself for me!"

"Reasonable?" she whispered as a single tear leaked out of the corner of one of her grey eyes.

"Please." I didn't care how desperate I looked to Panem, I didn't care that the whole nation was watching me cry. I only cared that she was placing her knife gently in the sand between us. To my surprise and further confusion, she held out her fist, placed on her other open palm. "Rock, paper, scissors," she informed me coolly.

I was too shocked to speak for a moment. "You can't be serious."

"I am. Winner has to kill loser. No excuses."

I fumbled with my thoughts. It was better, but not by much. With this crazy proposal, she could still win. And then _win_.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. "Winner kills looser?"

She nodded.

I held out my fist to mirror hers, heart racing against my chest and thoughts suddenly sluggish. Our fists rose in unison, and pounded our palms once, twice, three times…

My two extended fingers stared triumphantly at her flat hand.

"Scissors beats paper," she breathed, bending to retrieve her knife and offer it to me again.

"No!" I shouted at her, sobbing in earnest now. "I won't!"

"You promised," she countered heatedly, clasping my hands around the hilt of the long knife. "You agreed to my terms, and you won."

"But—but you knew what I was going to play!"

She nodded stonily. "You're a lot like Skye, Sparrow. She always chooses scissors."

"I—but—" She ignored my sputtering and put her shoulders back with her chin high, as if inviting me to plunge her blade into her own chest.

"I can't," I choked, vision blurred by the tears trembling in them.

"You can," she said gently, all trace of her unresponsive killer gone. My hands shook her weapon dangerously.

"What about your family?" she snapped suddenly, impatience wavering her tone. "What about your starving siblings? Don't you love them?"

My watery gaze met hers miserably. My next words were quiet and shaky. "I love you."

She stumbled a single step back before regaining her strength with a fluid breath. "No, Sparrow. You don't. One day," she swallowed heavily, "one day you'll find someone who you actually love, and you'll laugh when you think of me." Her already delicate voice cracked over _laugh_.

"Now please," she said quietly, shoulders shaking the slightest bit, "please do it. So I don't have to."

Violet. Lilac. River. Falcon.

I took a steadier hold on the knife.

Violet. Lilac. River. Falcon.

In an act of pure impulse, I leaned forward to press my numb lips gently to hers.

Violet. Lilac. River. Falcon.

Aislin.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

The palm's shadows danced, swirling and choking themselves on the sand as I tripped and stumbled through them, spine arched around the razors in my gut.

She'd be back at the clearing, of course. She'd be waiting. She'd have just gotten out of that water, and her hair would be long and wet and heavy…. She would smile when she saw me, and toss me a pack of mystery food with a lighthearted joke about how bad my hair looked…. She would sit with me and take a sip of her water, only the tiniest drops missing her lips and sliding slowly down her dry chin, dripping onto her lap… She'd tell me all about Twelve with that funny glint in her eye, and maybe even let me "accidentally" brush the back of her hand just for the thrill of her skin…

Meaningless yells filled the air around me. Maybe they were mine. Maybe they weren't. The roars of raw pain stirred the assortment of blades inside me, shoving them closer to the edge, threatening to cut themselves out. I buckled to the sand and threaded my hideous fingers through my revolting, stick-like hair, yanking at their roots in hope that chunks would come free in my fists... that maybe ruining myself would help pay for… what I'd done…

More screams echoed in my ears. Hot tears were on my face. Blood was on my hands. My hideous hands.

I had to get up, though. Had to get on my feet, because she was waiting for me back at the clearing. She'd give me the biggest eye roll and huff of a sigh when I was late. She'd be so exasperated. She'd tell me how slow I was. But then she'd smile, smile that tiny little smile that I don't think she likes a lot of people to know about.

My nails were clotted with black, knuckles slathered in the scarlet stuff. They were revolting, my hands. How my fingers stuck out. How they bent so easily. How effortless it was for them to handle a knife—

More yells. More blood. More hair.

And then a person. A big person, too broad and tall to be her. I think it watched me for a while, this big person. Just stood back and watched. It was silent until I was.

"You're the Eleven kid, right?"

It had a weapon—a big weapon with a pointy head. I wondered if it would really hurt that much to run that through my gut. It couldn't hurt worse than what was already growing inside me…

"What happened to you?" it asked, a bit lower as if not to be overheard. My tongue ran around my teeth for a few moments before it could remember how to form words.

"The Games happened to me," I choked, so loud in my own ears but probably hardly audible to his.

"I just woke up to two fried corpses hanging above my face," he said stonily, bending down to get on my eye level. "And half of my supplies gone."

Words, words, meaningless words. None of the jumble of sounds he made struck me as significant. He continued talking huskily for another moment.

"Just kill me, will you!" I shouted at him before I realized my mouth was open. The horrendous hands of mine fumbled restlessly. I wanted to be rid of them. I wanted to hack them off. I never wanted to look at their bloodstained surface again.

He paused, looking at me. I tore once more at my hair, welcoming the shredding of my scalp to try and soothe the flow of pain in my chest.

"I chose scissors, all right?" I croaked, clutching my arms closer to my chest. "Kill me. Just do it."

I closed my eyes, leaving myself with nothing but the sharp red of the back of my eyelids in the sunshine and the slicing of my insides.

I hardly heard his reply.

"No."

He must be a Career, I realized groggily. No one else would just leave me… he was standing up and collecting his weapons, getting ready to just walk away.

"Wait!" I cried at his broad back. Red rimmed my foggy gaze. He stopped and turned to face me slowly.

"Please," I begged lowly as I held up my hideous hands, wrists together as if they were shackled. "Please just cut them off." I averted my gaze back to the dancing shadows on the ground so as not to have to see those awful hands.

The idiot was silent for a whole minute, just watching me as he seemed to like.

"PLEASE!" I bellowed. "If you had _any_ kindness in your entire body, you'd come back and _get rid of them_!" I choked on a heavy sob.

He just watched me. Just stood there.

"I don't have a problem with killing tributes," he said bitterly, "when I want it. When it would benefit me and my plans." He watched me re-grip my hair and face the sand once more. "But killing you…" he took another few steps away from me, "would be more beneficial to you. It wouldn't be right."

"Please!" I tried to beg at his retreating back. He turned one last time and studied me.

"I will find you, when you're back on your feet and able to defend yourself. Then I'll kill you."

"It won't happen," I tried to tell him.

"It will," he called over his huge shoulder.

I closed my eyes.

I was late.

She'd be waiting.

* * *

**Another face filling the sky tonight. Wreathed in fake stars and the cries of a certain tribute far, far below...**

**Aislin Lieds, District 12**

* * *

Happy Sparrow, sad Sparrow, mentally disturbed Sparrow...

We're down to four tributes. Just four. Who'll it be? If you want to earn poetic admiration points in my heart, tell me how Sparrow and Charles' situations are similar and different. I'll send you my love, seeing how points are sort of shot. Who would you like to see win? _**Review**_ and tell me. And the chapter, too. Tell me about the chapter.

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	26. Kindness

**Still alive. Believe it or not.**  
**Let's check on Neveah, shall we?**

* * *

The palms seemed quiet without his tortured screams. Not truly silent like they'd been at the beginning, but… quiet. It made me nervous. Made me feel loud. Each one of my shifting steps hissed the sand around, and my breath scraped against the side of my dry throat.

_Don't get paranoid._

I lowered my spear to use it as a walking stick, adding its steady plodding to my parade of noise. Cal could be following me right now. I allowed myself a single impulsive glance over my shoulder before continuing on the Eleven boy's old trail. Not that I was that great at tracking (I'm not), but by the marks he left, he could have been dragging himself across the sand. Probably was, come to think of it. But the important piece was that the trail was wet. And I was nowhere near the ocean. As far as I knew, there was only one other source of water in this arena, and Eleven must have been holing up there ever since we left.

I paused, mentally pricking my ears for any wet noises. Ten… fifteen seconds passed. Nothing. With a sigh and a stretch of my spear, I set off again, resisting the urge to look behind me again.

Cal could be almost anywhere…. But why would she chase me down after planning her escape so well?

Because she's a backstabbing jerk?

Probably.

I heaved my pack up higher on my back, limbs restless with lack of excitement. With a heavy shake of my free arm, I pressed back the images that had been fighting for my attention ever since they'd first assaulted my eyes… Callista coming at me with her trident, pain splitting through my shoulder, utter blackness… two mangled and burnt corpses, fried beyond recognition to anyone but me… and that Eleven kid, with his blood-smeared hands and tortured scalp, pink puffy eyes and begging that hurt something deep in my gut…

I should have killed him. Why didn't I kill him? I could have killed him easily. It would have been quick and relatively painless. _Why didn't I kill him?_

Perhaps more importantly, why didn't Cal kill me? That was the question that had been running in an endless loop through my consciousness for a while… because I couldn't really bring myself to be mad at her. If we had stayed allies, we would have had to split up almost immediately anyway, being the final four and all. Maybe it was best that she did what she did… Come to think of it, I didn't see how I didn't see her escape coming. She always had a plan. Sitting around and waiting for tributes to stumble upon us wouldn't be Cal-like at all. I bet _she_ would have killed the Eleven. Without any hesitation. He wouldn't have had to beg her to run him through, or hack off his hands. She'd just get it over with.

Does that make her stronger than me? Maybe. But that doesn't matter. Maybe one doesn't need strength to win this thing. All I really need is to not die.

I scuffed the sand irritably, only making myself louder. If Cal was following me, I certainly wasn't giving her a difficult time with it. Any second now, she'd jump out from behind a palm and knife me. Or trident me. That'd be like three knives, wouldn't it—more like three mini swords… probability of survival was much, much less than just a knife wound—

And something snorted. Something… not a tribute. My thoughts immediately flew to the beasts we'd found the Eight girl with… but those were a ways away. Weren't they? They'd been—

It breathed again. Closer. I froze, careful to keep my arms taut at my sides as I turned, ever so slowly, around. Turned out I did have a follower. But it wasn't Cal. It was one of the horse-things. I let out my lungful of pent-up air and adjusted my grip on my spear as I appraised the little creature; he had to either be a baby or some sort of midget. Dangerous? Unlikely. I wasn't about to cuddle it, but I doubted it would run me through with its dagger-like spikes anytime soon.

"You've been following me?" I asked him, immediately feeling stupid for addressing a mutt that had been created in a lab full of men planning my hopefully graphic death.

The little pearlescent guy toppled a few steps backward on his spindly legs, his wide white eyes staring straight through me as his floppy ears flicked back in worry.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I confessed, continuing my plodding pace through the palms, tracking the wet drag marks. Now that I tried, I could hear his soft hoof beats in the sand a few feet behind me.

"No, really," I called over my shoulder. "I didn't even have the guts to kill a guy begging for it. Death, I mean."

The creature drew a little closer in his curious pursuit.

"Then again," I continued, throwing caution to the wind and reveling in the ability to speak civilly with another being, "I did snap that Six's neck pretty easily…." I rubbed the heel of one filthy hand over my scratchy jaw thoughtfully, momentarily intrigued with how my companion's steps were getting a little choppier. Probably because he was struggling to keep up with me.

The sun lit up the white, powdery soft sand to an almost blinding tone that forced my eyes into narrow squints as I eyed the quickly fading trail. "And there were others at the Cornu… funny. I guess it takes a certain frame of mind to kill someone. Anger, yeah. Frustration? Determination?" I sighed, thinking of my proposal to Eleven. "I'm going to have to find him, you know," I called over my shoulder. "When he gets better. Better? Sounds like he's getting over the freakin' flu," I muttered. "But then I'll have to see him strong and kill him _then_… what if I flake out? No." I shook myself thoroughly. "No. It's not going to happen again. Once is too many. Twice would be…" I paused in my steady pacing, suddenly aware that the drag marks were completely faded away. I swore under my breath and took a frustrated kick out on the sand before realizing it'd probably scare my little follower off. But just as I turned around to check on him, my heart gave an awful squeeze and a huge pulse of ice shot through my system.

My little follower was there. Right beside the Eight girl. And her long, lean blade and glinting tears.

My spear was thrown in a fit of panic, and in conjunction with my rusty aim, it left my grip with a dangerous wobble. Her shriek of pain was a surprise; I'd been sure that my hasty throw would skim by her left arm without even grazing it. Someone up there was looking out for me, though, because the head found the tender inside of her elbow and punctured almost all the way through the joint. Raging fury, magnified even from the stare she'd given me after killing her ally, flamed in her wet gaze as she crumpled involuntarily to her knees. Her scream seemed to startle the little beast, because it glanced at her in confusion and worry before bolting off like a fawn from a horse.

I hastily felt for the hilt of the dagger in my waistband, trying to steady my shaking hands and pounding heart in the process. The Eight girl was still doubled over at the waist, her steady flow of tears driving dark splotches onto the sand beneath her. Blood pumped freely from her arm as her other hand wrapped itself tenderly around the hilt of my spear.

"How did you get them to trust you?" I asked casually, briefly wiping the blade of the unused dagger on my shorts. "Threatening? Deceiving? Violence, maybe?"

"No," she gasped as her grip tightened on the weapon lodged in her arm. "Gentleness. Kindness."

"Hm. I bet their system isn't used to that…" I drew closer to the weeping girl, watching the hand on the spear instead of her hair-curtained face.

"'Course not," she hissed between uneven breaths. "But violence doesn't seem to bother them… either. They just… aren't dangerous."

"Is that what you think?" I replied softly, lowering myself slowly to her level. "Well, I guess you'll never get to find out… sorry."

That seemed to work as the push I was looking for; she gave another scream as she yanked the weapon out of her own flesh and used the heavy head of the spear as momentum to fling it at me. Had I been standing, as I had moments earlier, the lead head would have driven through my neck and probably broken my spine. But I was kneeling. With a dagger.

With a great sweeping motion, I brought the slim thing down, aiming for the exposed back of her neck and hoping I would make contact with the stacked bones there. But my blade buried itself in the sand an inch from my toes, hindering me for a split second as I realized that the girl had rolled out of harm's way and was now struggling to her feet. Before she could get herself steady, however, I lunged out both hands and caught a grip on her ankle, leaving me flat on my stomach and her toppling over on her side. She gasped as her fall from my grip forced her ankle into an unnatural angle, but continued to claw desperately at the sand in an attempt to army-crawl away. With a grunt, I threw myself forward a few more inches—enough to grip my other hand around her thrashing calf. Her pale skin was slick with moisture, forcing my grip even tighter to get a strong hold. Risking the release of her ankle for three seconds, I snatched up my discarded weapon and fastened it between my teeth, pirate-style, ignoring the metallic pain the clash of teeth and metal sent through my gums.

She was reaching for something, I realized as I replaced my ankle hand above her knee, slowly immobilizing her legs. Her wet legs struggled under my hold to no avail. With another pang of panic I caught a glint of silver in the sunlight; the knife she'd dropped as she fell. Her fingertips were inches away…

I quickly lurched my entire body forward, barely getting the sand beneath my feet to give me enough traction to kick myself into a half-dive that landed me flat on her back. The impact of my broad frame crashing down on her spine forced the wind out of her, and a tiny surge of triumph hit my system as I looked around for her blade…

Just to find it in her bloody fist.

"Get off me," she gasped with what little air could make it into her lungs.

I removed my own knife from between my teeth. "Give me the knife."

"_No_." The single word came as a rush of air.

"Then tell me where the pool of fresh water is."

"I don't… know!"

"Don't lie to me. Those beasts need water as much as you do, and your feet were wet."

"I don't… know what…" she dragged another ragged breath in as the blood from her arm wound dripped steadily onto the sand. Thinking quickly, I caught hold of the hand of her wounded arm and forced it up behind her back. She shouted for a moment before her air supply ran out and she was left gasping again.

"I think you know where it is," I prodded as she tried to adjust her grip on the knife in her free hand.

"Don't! I… don't!"

I gave her arm a sharp twist that probably damaged a few of the tighter ligaments around her elbow… unless they had already been split by her spear wound. I felt her lungs empty soundlessly in her own silent scream. Her noiseless sobs curdled something in my gut; the same something, perhaps, that hadn't liked seeing the Eleven boy beg for his own death.

_Stay strong, Neveah. This is what you've been working for; don't back out now, don't flake when you need strength!_

"Are you positive you don't know the location of the pool? Because I don't like trying to jog your memory like this."

I was met with more silent, desperate sobs.

"Maybe this will help." With my free hand and slightly shaking fingers, I took hold of the glittering piece of silver on her ring finger.

"No!" she hissed, arching her spine and tugging against my hold on her wrist. "No, please…"

"Where's the water?"

My fingers tightened on the ring.

"I don't… no!"

I eased the slim piece of jewelry off her finger, much to her protest, and held it gingerly on the tip of mine. "I will throw it." I informed her firmly. "Unless you tell me where the pool is."

"Never."

The cheesy line that I'd seen in so many movies on the crappy old monitor on the boat sounded truly loathsome coming from her lips. With a new-found strength, she bucked out her back and legs, slamming her sharp ankles into my back repeatedly and worming her knife hand out from under her chest. To my horror, her thrashing had dislodged the hilt of my dagger from my death grip, sending it flying four feet away from where we were tangled. She twisted and kicked underneath me, forcing herself onto her back and raising her blade to strike.

I panicked a little. Unsure of what else to do-weaponless and with her strong side facing me-I brought my fist down on her jaw. Hard. She hesitated long enough for me to get my knees in better positions on her shoulders, and feet securely hooked over her hips. With my weight evenly distributed, not even her most violent thrashes could dislodge me. Or so I hoped.

She screamed in agitation and pain, reaching over her head to get a handful of sand and fling it harshly into my face. I couldn't help the hiss of frustration that left my dry lips as I tried to rub the grit out of my stinging eyes, but it was no help. Just as I was earning my vision back, she finally made use of her blade and brought it down on my exposed thigh.

Luckily, her swipe had been sideways instead of straight down, and therefore left a good sized slash through my shorts and skin, but it felt extremely shallow. Luckily, her swipe had been sideways instead of straight down, so while it left a good sized slash through my shorts and skin, it felt extremely shallow.

That didn't stop it from hurting like hell, but I just bit my lip and reminded myself that I was fighting a girl with one functional arm. And I had the upper hand.

With a blind swipe of one hand, I connected harshly with the row of knuckles on her knife hand, forcing them open and watching her weapon fall dully to the sand.

_Finish it. Finish this before someone finds you._

Dutifully taking the orders from the part of my brain that still seemed to work correctly, I moved both hands to her exposed throat and clamped on it like the muscles on the underside of our fishing boat. Both her hands flew up to claw at the backs of mine, but my decision was made.

I did my best to ignore the wrenching discomfort inside me as I watched her face turn darker and darker… Then her enraged eyes locked into mine and swore silently to haunt me every day for the rest of my life… and her cannon sounded.

I released her immediately and sprung away as if her body was as flaming just as James and Pearl's had been. I was surprised to feel my breath coming in harsh flashes as if I'd just run a mile, and my gut so twisted that it felt like emptying itself into the sand beside her… I fought the urge with the thought of keeping what food I'd already eaten down. Not wasting more.

But her shocked, sightless stare scared me a little. It drove in the guilt I'd already experienced from taking another human's life so forcefully… it was so wrong. These whole Games were so wrong. So sick, to force people to brutally attack and murder one another simply with the goal of keeping their own survival…

_Kill or be killed_, I reminded myself calmly, regaining my composure somewhat.

Something light slipped from my fingers as I turned away from the body before I realized that I'd even been holding anything in the first place. Glancing down, a sharp glint of shining silver and stone caught my eye. I bent gingerly to retrieve the ring, scooping it up in my huge hand. It looked so tiny and delicate in my rough palm, innocently catching the sunlight in its many faces and sparkling them back onto my skin.

I'm not sure when exactly I made the decision, but it was somewhere in those few moments as I watched the dainty thing sit against my calloused skin. I stood slowly and made my way back through the bloody sand to the mangled girl's body, taking her blood-slathered left hand gently in my own. Unsure suddenly of which finger it was supposed to go on, I shoved the thin little thing into her palm and closed her skinny fingers around it as best I could.

"I'm sorry." I told her lifeless face, keeping my eyes above her horribly bruised neck.

Two of my thick fingers slid her eyelids shut as I let my words sink in and took one last look at the girl who'd never get to marry the boy she loved.

Then I turned on my heel.

And ran.

* * *

**Baize Claremont, District 8**

**Fare thee well.**

* * *

A/N: Remember to review. We're down to three... count them, THREE, tributes, so maybe I'll be more motivated to update more often. Maybe. That also means that the arena isn't going to be deserted without a fight... what's next for these poor kids?

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	27. Flicker

**I have officially finished writing this fic. There are two more chapters after this one, and I promise they will both be up in the next week. Thank you to everyone who's tagged along on this twisted little journey of mine... it's been a wild ride. Very, very fun to write.**

**Let's visit Cal.**

* * *

_The fisherman's net_

_Is what brought him away_

_What drew him out of the home by the bay_

_And the sea, it seems, has stolen him now_

_If it weren't for the clouds, I wouldn't know how…_

My mournful tune was foolish, that much I was sure. But really, with only Neveah and some Eleven kid left, I might as well invite them to attack me. So I continued with my hollow, willowy sailor's song as I continued stripping away the bark of a certain palm.

_Away over whites,_

_Away over seas,_

_Will he ever come back for me?_

_But as sure as the tide,_

_And as silent as fish,_

_His water-clogged ears will hear my wish…_

It was a song that some of the girls who worked on the dock tying nets would pass around over their quick, bloodied fingers. Sometimes cabin boys would waste away an hour or so with a reed flute to carry with the girl's voices up to the town and across the water. It was an old song; I didn't know exactly when or how it had been written, but I guess it's something like nymph tales and legends. Everyone had known them, since… forever?

I tore at the bark with a new-found energy as I wondered how the routine of Four could possibly be so repetitive and predictable while my life at the moment was anything but. I could die at any moment. Just… poof. Viewers get bored of me, I'm gone.

Maybe not, I tried to comfort myself. Maybe they'd thrust another tribute at me first, let us face off or whatever. Maybe something huge would erupt, as it usually does at this point in the Games, forcing together the remaining tributes—

With eerie timing, pounding like miniature thunder struck me from the left. My hands immediately frozen in their work, I faced the sound with every intention of reaching for my trident but with no response from my calloused limbs. Footsteps, I decided as they grew louder. Someone's running at me. Fast.

Panic and confusion struck my system in even increments, finally forcing my fingers to drop the bark and pick up my weapon. Whoever the tribute was, he was charging like a blinded bull straight at me… I couldn't see him yet, which only served to heighten my nerves as I stood stupidly pointing my trident at my unknown attacker. It's probably the Eleven boy. This was a stupid and clumsy attack. Neveah would never just charge randomly at me—

But the first glimpse I caught of the runner erased any thoughts of the Eleven kid. Neveah was sprinting, for his life it seemed, with a flushed face, bloodshot eyes and his spear clumsily clutched in one fist. He ran with it like a baton, though, not as if to skewer me as I'd expected… As he drew nearer and nearer I began to doubt his intentions of attack. He didn't even seem to see me. If his eyes were even rested on me, they could have been on the sand behind me, because I didn't feel his gaze.

And in the same bizarre charge, he broke into my clearing and charged right up to me. To my surprise, he stopped, breath heaving, for just long enough to get out two hoarse words.

"They're coming."

And he was off again, without posing any threat or questioning my ditching him. It was as if the devil himself was at the boy's heels, ready to take his soul…

"Wait!" I found myself yelling after him as his broad frame pummeled away from me through the palms. "Who's coming?"

But I could have been the wind in the breeze for all he noticed. The original panic of his supposed attack didn't even have a chance to wane before fresh fear of whatever was chasing him blossomed into its icy entirety in my chest.

And that was right about when I heard him.

"_Cal… why didn't you come save me? Why did you leave me? I thought we were friends…"_

I am not a let's-stop-and-think-about-this person. Usually my instincts and actions win out over any panicky thoughts that manage to float through my head in times of stress. But as Jarvis' voice hit me for the second time, in the middle of the island, nowhere near the ocean or the cove the merpeople had been tucked in, I stopped for a second and actually closed my eyes.

Inhale. Exhale.

_Mer-Jarvis is near._

Inhale.

_No, that's impossible._

Exhale.

_Then his voice got louder?_

Inhale.

_Unlikely._

Exhale.

_Have to do something._

Inhale.

_Run._

Exhale.

Not needing to be told twice, my legs began their steady pump, turning over into auto-pilot, and I slowly cranked up the speed as I trailed my District partner in spindly patterns through the ever-silent palms. Jarvis' vengeful voice played with my ears and mind as I ran, doing my best to block out his hateful words and remind myself that this was a fake Jarvis…

And I only made it about a quarter mile. Before I found him.

I almost tripped over my own bare feet as all my momentum came to a skidding halt, my filthy hair swooping around my face and lack of movement in combination with shock sent me skittering back a few paces. Because I've seen fish on land before. In the market, on the docks, in my own kitchen. They're dead. Very stinky, very scaly, and very dead.

But the mer-Jarvis wasn't.

"_Cal, thank the gods you found me—I need your help. I need your help now, Cal._"

The same bell-like after ring floated at the end of his words, but the pain in his expression was as real as James and Pearl's had been. The same deep gashes and bruises littered his exposed skin, especially nasty around the narrowest point of his deflated and flopping tail. Dried blood mixed with sand under the fingernails he had left, as if he'd been clawing himself along the sand for hours in my pursuit. Heavy bags lay under his hollow eyes as he gazed up at me through half-shattered glasses and continued to beg.

"_It just hurts, Cal, more than I think I can say…_"

His dark hair was thin and even filthier than mine, his scalp bleeding and scarred.

"_All you have to do_," he continued hoarsely, "_is take this from me_." He uncurled one clenched hand to expose a surprisingly bright stone whose surface glinted eagerly off the waning sunlight. "_Take it, Cal, and I'll be better_," he coaxed, cut off quickly by a cough that sprayed blood onto the sand over his shoulder.

I eyed the stone and my heart gave a huge clench. It was tiny—no bigger than a marble—and the color of the sea in the summertime… nothing so small could possibly be that harmful, not even the Gamemakers had that kind of power…

His hand shook with the effort of holding it up. With slow, cautious steps, I approached him and knelt in the sand beside him.

His miserable, tortured gaze met mine. "_Please_."

In a split-second decision, my fingers closed around the tiny stone and it was engulfed in my palm.

A single high-pitched and completely un-Jarvis-like laugh pierced the air briefly before I instinctively leaped away from the mermutt. The creature's eyes were suddenly clouded over in black as if ink had instantly blotted them out… its teeth were sharp and pointed in the brief, horrible smile it offered before slinking back into itself. A hissing noise filled the sudden wind around me, and the creature's curled-up body blew away in particles of black sand. The thing was gone within ten seconds of me taking the stone.

This time, I didn't think. I just ran. Not in the measured, got-to-get-somewhere way I had before, but rather the blind sprint Neveah had demonstrated earlier. New pounding filled the palms, but it wasn't the singular pump of Neveah's footsteps—these were hoofbeats. Tons and tons of them. My trident swung awkwardly in my grip as I sprinted, high on huge doses of adrenaline and panic, through the palms and wondered in a puny part of my brain how I wasn't hitting them. I was almost instantly frustrated with the way the sand clogged my usually sharp movements, remembering my usual runs on the beach and finding no similarity in the two situations.

And then a cannon.

And then a clearing.

And then… mutts.

The horse-creatures from before formed solid, slowly churning walls of steady movement around the largest clearing of the island, centered with the brightly shining Cornucopia. There had to be thousands of them, all watching me with their white eyes and snorting impatiently, as if waiting for the signal to charge. None of their previous gentleness or harmlessness showed through their piercing gazes now. Death filled the air, rolling off the mutts in waves that threatened to overpower me with each lungful as my eyes scanned the clearing for the body.

_Please be Eleven_, I found myself uselessly praying. _Let him have stumbled into one by mistake…_

But then my flighty gaze fell on two beasts by the opening of the Cornu, which on its own displayed old blood from tributes fallen what felt like years ago, but I knew was only a few weeks. The larger of the two lifted its great, spiked head to look right through me before returning its attention to the shadowed-off inside of the Cornu. The smaller one, which seemed to be a baby, was gnawing happily away at some sort of meat…

My stomach flipped over and I was prepared to puke on the spot as I caught sight of a mop of bloody blond hair at one side of the fresh meat the baby mutt so gleefully chomped at… Blood dyed its pale muzzle and lips, strings of the bloody stuff hanging from the edges of its lips.

I swallowed back the bile in my throat with the reminder that these are the Games. Only one of us can make it out alive, which means he had to die at some point.

Not like this.

Just as I was about to charge up to the huge things, the larger one cried out on pain and stumbled back, throwing its head into the air. Whatever it was had struck from inside the Cornucopia—and I didn't envy them. He lashed out again with a strange weapon I've never seen before; something like a pole with a curved blade at the end. It barely missed the baby, but after another strike I wasn't sure he was even really aiming for it at all, but rather to shoo it away so he could make his escape. The larger mutt began to come back to the pine of meat and Cornu, its intentions unclear.

Now the Eleven boy stepped out into the light, shedding the shadows of the Cornu and brandishing his strange weapon with surprising ease, considering his state. He was almost as bad as the mer-Jarvis; especially his hands. Their skin was flayed and seemed to only be held together by dried patches of blood… there even seemed to be sand mixed into the cuts that ran together on the back of his palms.

He took an arch of a swing at the adult mutt, and judging by the blood-curling shriek the creature gave off, he caught an eye.

Maybe that was the signal. Maybe I'd already missed it. Maybe the other mutts wanted some of the Neveah-snack. I don't know. But all the surrounding creatures decided that that moment was when they would all charge at once.

Watching them closing in suddenly from all sides of the clearing, I instantly twirled around, trying to keep them all in my sight but quickly finding I couldn't. My breath was snatched from my lungs time after time as I was forced nearer the Cornucopia and the Eleven boy. He, too, seemed unsure of how to deal with these things, and I quickly found myself back-to-back with him, our spines rubbing uncomfortably as we turned, spy-style, to face the quickly approaching mutts.

"We could fight from inside the Cornu," he yelled over his shoulder. His voice was as damaged as his body.

"No, that leaves us no escape route," I replied, surprised at how loud I had to be to be hear over the army of hoofs.

"But we would only have to protect one side," he argued back, voice devoid of any real passion on the topic of his death.

"We'll be stuck!"

"Suit yourself." He sounded resigned as he made a break back to the glittering gold Cornu; I found myself standing stupidly alone for a moment before hurrying after him, leaping over the mess that was Neveah while trying to keep my attention on my current situation.

There's only two of us left.

We're trapping ourselves inside the Cornucopia.

There are hundreds of blood-thirsty mutts out to get us.

I tried to drag in a deep breath, but my mind and lungs didn't seem to like working together all of the sudden. The mutts were twenty feet away… then ten.. then five… I could smell their rotting breath on the previously sweet breeze…

Just three feet away…

I raised my trident to strike—

And they flickered. Like candle flames, they flickered. At the same time, my trident instantly lost its weight, causing me to drop it clumsily and watch as it, too, flickered into transparency; a two-dimensional image that might be there, but might not. The Eleven boy's weapon was on the ground, too, acting as the suddenly frozen mutts and my trident were.

Flickering. Flickering.

And a single great blow of wind swept the clearing. All the mutts, all the palms, our weapons, the Cornucopia itself flickered violently for a split second… and were snuffed out as easily as a weak candle flame. Gone. Disappeared.

There was the sky. The sand. And the Eleven boy with a face paler than death and eyes that must have seen it already.

* * *

**Neveah Bosun, District Four**

**A loss that took four weeks to decide on. And six hours to write.**

* * *

Review. Review. Review. I think that's all I have to say... oh, and stay tuned for the finale of the Games next chapter...It will either go over wonderfully or horribly, can't decide without you guys...

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


	28. The Victor Ascending

**And here is the last chapter of the arena. Tonight, we have a victor. And also a runner-up of sorts...**

**To Sparrow.**

* * *

She'd once mentioned to me that you can't depend on anything in the arena. I'd thought she meant tributes, which, at the time, I understood. My experience with Seed taught me that. Hell, my experience with her taught me that. But foolish me thought, though subconsciously, that things like the palms were there to stay. Things like the Cornucopia. The floaty clouds that I might have called beautiful once. I thought they were a constant; something that, no matter how screwed up its inhabitants became, stayed exactly unchanged and ever-present.

I was a fool.

One huge bluster of wind was all it took to make these "solid" things turn to flame-like images. Untouchable. Two-dimensional. Unreal. And it only took another gust of wind to wipe them all away completely. Just snuffed out. Gone.

As I stood in the middle of nothing and nowhere, I mused idly at where they went. Or did they even go anywhere? Were they here to start with? Where does fire go when it's extinguished? Certainly not back to the Capitol. I doubt the mutts and palms and Cornucopia were sent back to headquarters for next Games. Wherever they were, they weren't coming back.

I was jealous.

That single thought spiked up the usual war inside me, the one that raged between the part of me who would welcome that sort of blissful nothing and the part who would be shamed to take another unnecessary life in this horrible event. My life wasn't worth taking, I figured, promptly followed by its twin screaming that my life wasn't worth living.

Someone outside my own thoughts spoke. "This is impossible… no, no, no they'd never do this…"

It was a girl. Not her, as I'd been foolishly hoping, but a Career with length in her legs and fear in her eyes. _Fear in a Career_, I mused. How unusual. _This must be a bad situation if a Career is afraid_.

I almost reached for my beloved and painfully new scythe before realizing it wasn't there. There wasn't anything. Just the girl. And me. Two lives prepared to be shaved down to one.

Her piercing blue eyes shot straight through me in barely controlled panic. "I have to kill you," she said out loud, as if confirming the fact to herself. Or maybe asking for my consent. I didn't give it.

Then she reached for something small in pocket, something I wasn't expecting but watched with sidetracked curiosity anyway.

"Hey," I croaked, vaguely surprised that my voice still worked. "I have one too."

She watched in astonishment, as I pulled out my own little blue stone from the depth of my worn shorts. She stared at our matching marble-like rocks for a moment before speaking slowly and taking a few steps away from me. "This is how they found us… the mutts, I mean. You have one, I have one… Neveah must have, but how…"

Her brow crinkled as she continued to back away from me, her voice getting slightly louder with each step. "Wait... the Eight girl had one, too! I thought her ring looked large, when we ran into them… they must have switched the original stone with this thing when they checked her token… I get it now!" She tossed her hands into the air uselessly and tilted her face to the sky with a single triumphant laugh, as if she could speak directly to the Gamemakers. "Neveah must have killed that girl and _touched_ the stone by accident—things only started to get weird when I touched mine, and you must have had yours before then—Clever. Clever, clever, clever Capitol… All three of the stones activated together somehow made that herd of _things_… And they did what you wanted. They narrowed it down to just two, but how are you going to mess this up for me now? Is it going to… to…" She sputtered for words, still addressing the sky. "To rain acid? And we'll have to take cover under each other's bodies? Will there be more crazy mutts? Walking corpses? Tidal wave? Are you really just going to let me off the hook this easy?"

Her newly lit gaze fell on me, a good twenty feet between us now. "Kill a tribute with your bare hands… Not something I ever thought I'd need to do, but desperate times call for desperate measures…"

And she began pacing steadily toward me.

"_I really don't want Cal to kill Sparrow… That might make me hate her a little bit…_"

The Career girl froze in her steady stalk toward me and glanced up at the limitless sky. The thin female voice swept the blank expanse of arena like the breeze had back when there was one. Just as its echo faded, it rang out again, this time from the opposite direction.

"_Still want Cal to win…_"

It was slightly different that time, like a sister to the previous one. The Career girl continued scouring the skies as if she could see the speakers if she squinted hard enough.

"_Go on, then…_" the first voice wavered. "_Do something, Sparrow…._"

I tottered a step forward, unsure of what exactly I _could_ do without any weapons. As much as I'd wanted my scythe before, it was nothing like the yearning for something in my hideous, hideous hands that I went through in that moment.

"_I don't really want Sparrow to win…_" the first droned. "_He is really broken…_"

"_I'm fully anticipating a Four versus Eleven showdown…_"

Showdown? Like, graphic fight?

The Career girl answered for me. She took the moment of my distraction with the blissfully arguing voices to sprint at me and leap in such a way that her full weight tackled my thin frame to the sand, crushing my already beat up shoulder beneath me in a dazzling array of pain.

_"I am…. not quite as fond of Cal…"_

The Career girl, Cal I assumed, seemed provoked even further by this last comment and jamed her elbow harshly against my throat. My windpipe wasn't crushed, but certainly not in the state it had been before.

_"How can you live with yourself… training for such pain?"_

Cal brought her fist down against my jaw, reminding me oddly of how _she'd_ slapped me once… That part of me that wanted nothing more than to take all the pain it could before disposing of my useless existence welcomed the abuse and urged my limbs not to fight it. _This is easy_, it told me as Cal delivered blow after expertly placed and blindingly painful blow.

"_If Sparrow wins, it's just a broken Victor…_"

"_I hope that Sparrow dies…_"

Stars and blotchy darkness clouded my vision of the vast blue sky, Cal's hair-strewn head casting a dark shadow over me as I took my abuse silently. I must be close now… the sort of pain that I could only associate with death split through my consciousness in a blinding rage of metallic torture…

"_Now I want Cal to win… Sparrow is too broken to win…_"

"_I lost my respect for Cal…_"

"_The Four is where my vote lies…_"

"Stop." This was a new voice, masculine, strong, and firm. "Stop or we will engage negative magnetics."

Cal paused at the announcer's voice, but turned quickly back to me and delivered a solid blow my one of my cheekbones that felt like a broad nail being pounded into my face.

That was when it became odd. Something like a hugely heavy blanket pressed up against my bruised and bloodied front, pinning me further to the ground. Something similar seemed to have happened to Cal, but due to the fact that she'd been sitting up, the impact of the invisible blow sent her flying back six feet and landing heavily in the sand a ways away from me.

"Do not approach each other," the Gamemaker instructed firmly. "Stay where you are."

I let my head thud back against the sand as the weight lifted gently. My eyelids slid shut, leaving me alone in the darkness with my confusion and aching pain. _How would I go about dying_, I wondered to myself as I let the arena slip out of my thoughts. _How would I tell myself to stop living?_

_To give up?_

"On your feet, please, tribute."

_No._

"On your feet, tribute."

I squeezed my eyelids together, refusing to acknowledge the woman's voice emerging from directly above me. I could smell the peppermint gum on her breath… a Capitol-ite.

"I can and will use force if you do not comply, tribute."

I cracked open my eyes with the utmost reluctance, cursing my body for its survival instincts.

"On your feet."

The woman standing over me was certainly from the Capitol—I recognized her as one of the Gamemakers behind the panel at the Training Center. She held an odd sort of electric device in one hand, her other placed impatiently on her hip. Every nerve in my body screamed its complaints as I struggled upright and rolled unsteadily to my feet.

"You can take me," I croaked to the Gamemaker, noticing the circular hole in the ground and recognizing it as one of the original starting plates that must have been since covered in sand. Trickles of the white stuff fell down the dark chute to what I knew was the launch room below… So very close this entire time but a complete world away…

"I'm not going to win this thing, just let me…" I buckled at the waist, accidentally catching sight of my hands and instantly nauseated.

"You may have one thing," she informed me mechanically.

I glanced up at her through puffy eyelids. "Anything?"

"You may have one thing," she repeated.

"May I have a person?" Something delicate and flighty stirred in my gut; a warmth that had long since been snuffed.

"You may have one thing."

"I'll have Aislin." My voice cracked painfully over the name I'd even been avoiding in my thoughts. "Bring her back, let her win—"

"The Capitol cannot reverse death. You may have one thing."

That flicker of hope, of warmth, was twisted into oblivion once more, doubling the hurt in its trail with the reminder of how things had once been.

"Choose quickly. You may have one thing."

I took a shattered breath that burned my throat.

"I want a life."

To my surprise, she didn't shoot down my request, but pressed a series of buttons onto her device and turned to face the entry chute expectantly. In moments, something small and shiny was tossed lightly out of the gaping hole and into the air before her; she snatched it expertly and turned toward me, offering the tiny vial on an open palm.

There was no mistaking the slightly cracked glass or tiny cork. There was even sand still clinging to its smeared sides. Aislin's medicine stared up at me, as innocent and as profound as ever.

"Take your object, and best of luck."

The Gamemaker returned to the shoot and waited patiently beside it as I stared at the vial I'd lost not too long ago. Almost silently, a plate filled the gap and she stepped cleanly onto her ticket out. Perhaps it was the light, or the fact that my right eye was swelling terribly, but I could have sworn she'd flashed me the tiniest of smiles before she dropped down the chute and the hole disappeared.

I turned slowly to where I knew Cal was waiting, every muscle of my being protesting with all its might. She stood expectantly right where she'd fallen, but she now had a brand new, gleaming trident in her grasp. Not one of the arena's steel and wood versions, but an expertly crafted weapon that reeked of death.

I glanced down at my puny bottle, sitting amongst the trash of my putrid hand. Was I supposed to take it? Maybe it would kill me. That wouldn't be entirely unwelcome, I decided as every joint from my hips down abused me thoroughly for trying to walk.

A new sort of energy glinting in her already blood-lust flooded gaze, Cal swung her weapon expertly into a position that would be perfect to skewer me on. I uncorked my bottle.

She threw her trident.

If time could choose when to be speed up and slow down, it decided to make those last few moments happen in a rapid-fire sort of rush. First thing I was aware of was the deadly weapon flying straight for my throat with uncanny aim; next, even more pain than before, enough to almost spot out my vision altogether and earning a sort of animalistic roar of raw agony that split the eerily calm air like her trident, I was sure, was splitting my neck… but no blood. Another cry; this one not mine, and not of pain but frustration, and the girl approached me again. The putrid hands that brought such hatred straight to my chest had somehow kept the bottle captured in them… I brought it up, just as the Career girl leaned down over me to dislodge her weapon and deliver the final blow… and the tiny amount of liquid still contained in the vial splashed straight out of the glass and across her face, seeping solidly into her wide gaze and sending her wheeling back instantly, clawing at eyes that I couldn't see and wailing in such a way someone might if they were getting a limb sliced off slowly…

Then silence.

Then a cannon.

And trumpets that sliced my oversensitive mind into unthinkably dismal bits… And then the slow, slow realization that breath was still flowing feebly through my lungs, and that that miraculous beat in my chest still pumped.

I have nothing to die for, I realized as the novelty of a heartbeat truly sank in. Twenty-three people have died to get me to where I am now. Twenty-three families will be mourning tonight. Never seeing their children again.

Why should I make that twenty-four?

Never will I forgive my hands for what they have done. Never will I forget the light leaving the eyes of the only girl I've ever cared for. Never will I take the life of another.

And never again will I doubt the value of my own.

* * *

**Callista Cade, District Four**

**"I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be." -Douglas Adams**

* * *

A/N: And fin.

Let me take advantage of the fact that you may figure that it's the last arena chapter and you should probably read the AN, and throw in some interesting factoids about these Games...

There is a chapter between Chapters 26 and 27 that I did not include for a reason... no one tribute's perspective could cover all that happened, with Sparrow finding his stone and finally getting his scythe, and finding the mutts, Neveah had a little slice of panic, and Cal had a lot more thoughts and musings about "back home." I'll probably post this mini-chapter (if anyone wants it) after the last chapter of Sparrow's post-Games settling.  
The next chapter should answer a lot of your questions ("Why did these random Gamemakers interfere?" "C'mon, that medicine wouldn't have _killed_ her." etc, etc).

**Changed my mind.**  
**A sequel is happening... I'm such a pushover. That, and FF is a great place to stretch and flow with your writing style. Tweek a little, flex a little. Look for my call for tributes (again, I'll only accept ten. And I don't think it'll be first-come-first serve this time... unless I get extremely impatient).**

**Factoid: Around chapter 10-ish, I seriously considered changing this fic's title to my original idea, _And This One Will Hurt... _**but I didn't because I thought it would cause too much confusion for what it's worth. I'm crazy busy right now, as you could probably tell from my none too quick updates, and am fast at work at my own original novel and a couple of one-shots in a few different categories...

If anybody's interested, I have a HP series that's prepared to be posted as soon as my HP beta is done with it. And a Mortal Instruments one-shot that will be up in the very near future.

When I first started out with LYGB, I was sure there would be _maybe_ 20 chapters and I would be over the moon if I got 100 reviews. Check out that little number up top, folks. A little more than 100, I think. My first call for tributes was on my last day of summer break... and now it's approaching the end of the school year fast. This is the second longest-term writing project I've ever done. 

**As always, review. You _have_ to have something to say after that interesting little finish. I would love to hear it, even if you just spout abuse at me. Our final chapter should be up within the week. Oh, and don't forget to mention if you'd be interested in chapter 26.5 or not in your review.**

**May the odds be _ever_ in your favor.  
Topsy **


	29. Carnage

**Well. My delay comes with news:**  
First off, this took so long because when I was about halfway done with it I went and got my heart broken and was left to deal with the mess it left alone... Not really the best inspiration for writing anything but man-hating poetry that never really got past "I hate you." I would happily yell his name from the rooftops and see if anyone recognized him, but alas, that would reveal too much about myself.  
Also, about a sequel: considering how incredibly writing-turned-off I've been lately, **I'm postponing the sequel until this summer**, when finals and this show string (horse shows) are over and I have one less thing on my plate. Knowing me, don't count on my promise to get that snowball rolling...

**What you actually want is to read the mega-chapter. Enjoy as best you can.**

* * *

"He's not awake; back off."

"Oh, come now, he'll be up any second. The sleeping injection only lasts six hours—"

"But are they conscious before then? Oh, god, what did you do to his back?"

"It was a bloody mess!"

"It was his trademark!"

"How would those awful gashes be anything to be proud of? And anyway, I left a few just to look fierce and all that—"

"Shut up! He's waking up!"

I took a slow breath of air through my nose, only immediately aware of a few things. First, I was face down on something soft and sterile-smelling, my cheek pressed up against fabric. Second, the room I was in was relatively small, judging by the way the two men's voices bounced so easily around it. And third, I felt _amazing_.

"Sparrow?" the lower-pitched man asked gently. "How do you feel? Does anything hurt?"

I rolled over slowly on my medical-like cot, legs twisted in the rough cotton sheets. My eyes opened groggily, but nothing was irritating or even sore. I felt lighter and more whole than I had in weeks.

"Are these lights too bright?" the higher-voiced man ferreted. "I can have them dimmed if you find them irritating—"

"No," I said, surprised to find my voice smooth and even, not the croak I'd been expecting. "No, I'm fine."

"Oh, good," the thin little man sighed. "I adjusted your inner eyes so they could handle normal sunshine—versus the synthetic over-bright rays those Gamemakers came up with—and I was worried that maybe I'd cranked them _too_ far up..."

"He doesn't care," the bigger man grizzled. Something clicked in my head as I studied the middle-aged man's face. Lucian. My mentor. Right.

"How're you feeling, kid?"

I rolled upright, testily shifting my shoulders up and down and twisting my head around in smooth circles. "Great," I grinned slowly, more to myself than the small lab-coated man.

"Look at that, we got a smile already. How fabulous." Who I assumed was a Capitol doctor, judging by his accent and overall sense of control over our small room, clapped daintily.

My grin slipped. _Wait_.

In a flood of almost overwhelming images and sensations, the arena took an unwelcome visit. I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my jaw in an attempt to beat them out, but only two remained. The Career girl's final scream of agony as she clawed at her own face… and my hands performing the deed that I refused to believe was actually real. Surely it was just a nightmare… surely someone else killed her, and I wept over her body after every attempt to save her…

Maybe they fixed my hands. Maybe they took the wrong out of them… I snuck a glance to where they rested on my lap and was instantly nauseated by how perfect they were. All the wounds I'd inflicted in their flesh were gone; replaced now by dainty pink lines like spider webs netting their surface. Just as I was about to re-inflict what I'd already accomplished, large, warm hands clasped around my wrists.

"Hey," Lucian said gently, setting my horrible hands to my sides slowly. "Take it easy."

"Why didn't you get rid of them?" I suddenly demanded of the smaller rodent-like doctor.

His pale brow furrowed. "Get rid of-?"

Lucian released my wrists carefully. "His hands," he said softly over his shoulder.

The small man snorted. "Oh, come now, he couldn't live without his hands—"

"Get rid of them!" I shouted, my voice coming out much more heated and crazed-sounding than I'd expected. I lowered it to a whimper. "Please. Take them away."

"I…. can't do that. You would be handicapped for the rest of your life!" the Capitol doctor sputtered. "And anyway, that's just the stress speaking. You'll be in a completely different mindset by tomorrow."

Lucian stopped my attempt to leap to my feet before I'd even realized I wanted to stand. "Take it easy," he warned lowly. I plopped back down on the cot sourly, taking a deep, steady breath in an attempt to calm myself down.

But then I caught sight of the plastic bag the doctor was inspecting across the room. "What's that?"

He immediately shuffled it out of sight; Lucian rolled his eyes and held out a hand. "It's the vial from the arena." He held out the bag-encased bottle, and its familiarity hit me far before his words did. The tiny bottle was almost empty now, with just a swig of surviving medicine sloshing around the bottom of the cracked and corkless thing. Pure white arena sand clung to the outside, and even a few drops of dried blood decorated the rim.

I looked away, feeling sick. "That's what killed the Four girl?"

"Yes," the doctor answered slowly. "Callista was most unfortunate to be the first test of this interesting new substance."

My eyes snapped up to his. "New substance?"

"Well," he flitted a careless hand through the air, "not _new_. Just with some new properties."

I raised my eyebrows in curiosity. Lucian sighed and lounged against the wall, as if he'd already been through this talk.

"It's a Capitol poison," the doctor continued blatantly. "We haven't put it to use in years, but its fairly common to those who can get at it. It was set aside after the rebellion, because who wants a poison that only works if squirted into your enemy's eyes?"

"What does it… do?" I braced myself for his answer, fingers actually tightening on my thin mattress.

"It… destroys the cells in one's eyeball. Basically eats them away. It was only ever used to kill, because that's all it can do. Whether you get one drop or an entire bottle full," he glanced pointedly at the vial, "in your eyes, you're very likely to die in the next minute or so." He paused for a moment, straightening the pens in his breast pocket tensely. "It digs beyond your visual system and almost immediately affects your brain… Dangerous stuff," he finished lamely.

"But it didn't kill Aislin, and she drank it," I pointed out, doing my best to ignore the way my gut wrenched and hairline began to sweat at the idea of what _did_ kill her.

"And this is the new discovery," the doctor said in his high voice, perking up considerably. "Subjects had tested it in the past, drank entire bottles full, but the only effect was hallucinations and mood swings. But you see; those were all able-bodied, healthy people. If we'd known such a thing could cure such fatal flesh wounds so quickly…" He gaped at the stuffy air for the right words for a moment. "Alas, the Gamemakers did not send Aislin the poison—that would be against the rules of the Game. It was an individual with access—probably illegal access—to the old storage of Medicines and Remedies under the Training Center. Its security has doubled since she received that package," he added darkly. "The eye poison is not all this person or persons seems to have gotten away with; what you so valiantly injected her with in the first place is a highly specialized Capitol painkiller that is only available in the smallest quantities to those with a wallet large enough."

"There was a note with it. But the person's signature was just a bunch of letters."

"It is under heavy inspection as we speak." The doctor rubbed his hands together, eyeing me up and down like an artist approving his work. "Now, then. Off to your stylist with you." He daintily snatched back the plastic bag with the poison in it and hurried me to my feet. It was only then that I noticed the plush white robe I was wrapped in, but Lucian seemed too relieved to get space between himself and the doctor to offer me clothes.

"He 'fixed' a lot of your scars," he grumbled as he towed me through the maze of chrome corridors and stark white doors, each with a strange combination of numbers and letters plastered onto it.

I shrugged. "They were going to go away anyway."

"Yes, but they were a strong tie from you to your district—something I worry you don't have enough of."

"My scars from repeated _beating_ are representative of Eleven?" I scoffed darkly. "There must be a better image we can give our home."

"Well, I actually had another idea…" he yanked me around one last corner to wait outside of what I assumed was an elevator. "You're a sweet kid. And your little stand with that Twelve girl could show Panem how caring you are—"

"No," I stated firmly before my mind could get worked up over it. "I'd rather go back into that arena than pedal lies about what happened in there. Or what I felt. Or why I did what I did."

"But we need to get you an angle, just like the opening interviews, remember? I don't think talkative and funny is really going to work for you, what with all this…"

I scowled at him. "All this what?"

"Doom and gloom attitude," Lucian said uncertainly, waving his hands around my head as if feeling the air around me. I swatted him away and tugged my robe closer around me.

"Doom and gloom, you think? I think it's a lot more of despair," I retorted harshly, "and maybe some agony… not to mention suicidal intentions and many occurrences of hysteria. In other words, I reek of Games. Sorry that doesn't work for your _angle_."

Lucian fell silent for a moment as the elevator dinged quietly and the doors slid open. We stepped into the small shaft together and I took another centering breath while mentally abusing myself for already sounding like those victors who have it so _bad_, who no one _understands_, who are so _lonely_ in their supposed glory…

"I'm sorry," I said quietly as the car shuffled upwards. "I guess the arena's just… on my mind."

"It doesn't go away, you know," he answered matter-of-factly. "It will always bother you. Best thing you can do," the elevator can to a smooth stop and the doors slid open again, "is find stuff worth living for out _here_, so you don't have to relive what happened in _there_."

I nodded solemnly and followed him out of the elevator. We traced nonsensical patterns through the never-ending Center for what seemed like a full hour, walking in thoughtful silence through the shiny corridors. Finally, Lucian pulled me to an unexpected stop outside a very unimpressionable door and waiting a second before knocking.

It swung open almost immediately. "Darling! And _darling_!"

Before I could register what was happening, silver arms were being flung around me and I was reaching for the knife at my nonexistent waistband that was no longer there. Arc, my stylist, drew back to plant a wet kiss on either of my cheeks before moving on to perform the same ritual with Lucian as I tried to relax. And failed.

"Come in, come in, you are ten minutes late and none too pretty! Sit," he instructed firmly after we were shepherded into the silver-y reflective room. I sat (more like fell) onto the huge salon chair that seemed to be the centerpiece of the entire counter-lined room. My prep team, a set of extremely short women whose names sounded like pasta, wasted no time in ridding me of my robe and shoving me back against the vinyl chair.

"Out of here with you!" Arc snapped at Lucian after a short, hushed discussion between them. "'Tis like a bride, nobody sees the dress until it is _complete_!"

My mentor managed to shoot me a half apologetic, half smug glance before he was shoved out the door he'd just come in.

"Now, then," Arc clucked, neon green eyes raking my naked body in a way that made my cheeks flush a little. I didn't think I'd ever get used to this guy. "You are fixed up, I see?"

Not sure whether I was actually supposed to answer or not, I gave a noncommittal shrug.

"Well." His pacing came to a halt right in front of me. I fought the urge to cover myself. "Not fixed up enough. Just look at those eyebrows, Amino," he prattled, tugging one of my prep team members aside to point blatantly at my face. "And the state of this skin! Dry, dry, dry as hell in here…" He fanned himself for another moment, still inspecting me like a bug under a stick. "And give him a shave. My god child, you said you were sixteen!" Arc rushed forward to prod along my jaw line thoughtfully, the peach fuzz that I'd been working on for weeks under his fingertips. "Actually," he drawled slowly, "keep it. It is a mark of the arena, of aging, I suppose. And it's red, which is _incredibly_ attractive…."

I did my best to let their prattle wear into background noise, but each of their piercing laughs slit my overworked mind into ribbons…

"Dat One geel," one of my preps leered, "was _fabulous_. I vould love to get my 'ands on 'er… dat 'air! Dat complexion!"

"'Twas nice, 'twas nice… just lovely eyes…"

"'Oo was it who keeled her? Miss Four?"

"The both of the Fours. A group plan, remember?"

"Oo, yes, oo 'ow 'orrible that must have been…"

"Sparrow darling?" Arc suddenly asked. I cracked open my eyes to find his face inches from mine, long wavy blond hair almost touching my face. If I could have leaped back, I would have.

"You're sweating, poor thing," he continued, waving a hand in the air and receiving a plush washcloth almost immediately. He dabbed it along my brow like a worried mother. "You are okay?"

"Yeah," I coughed, wishing this strange man would get out of my face. Luckily, he drew back almost immediately.

"Good, because I need to get some of this hair out of your face…" And he pulled out from his brightly colored tool kit a set of glinting blades and aimed them at my forehead.

Instinct beat thought, as usual with me, and I was out of that chair and across the room before I'd fully processed what happened. Something hot and wet was running along my brow; I lifted a tentative hand and drew away with scarlet fingertips. Hurriedly turning to the mirror-covered wall, I saw that it was only a grazing cut, not more than two inches long and just barely deep enough to break the skin.

"Sparrow darling…?" Arc asked gently from the chair, his fair brow crinkled and a tiny pair of scissors hanging off his fingertips. My prep team watched me like a bomb about to explode.

"Sorry," I said bluntly, trying to swipe away the blood but only succeeding in smearing it across my forehead.

"Ve see it all de time," one of my preps said nonchalantly.

"But look at the mess you've made! I just finished exfoliating that skin… Come back here and sit down. Look, the shears are gone. Sit down, Sparrow."

With far too much reluctance and shortage of breath, I replanted myself on the vinyl and did my very best not to think.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

"You're on in five," Lucian growled at me as soon as I burst into the interview set, Arc trailing me with fluttering hands and quiet complaints that I'd mess up my outfit and new hair style.

"I took longer than I thought," I replied tartly, rubbing the back of one of the gloves I'd been provided with. Gloves, it turns out, are wonderful things. Not only did I not have to see the flesh that had caused so much sin, but they also buffered any sense of touch to my fingers and palms. I might as well have been borrowing someone else's hands. It was wonderful.

Lucian eyed me critically. "You look like you're going to a funeral."

"Ah, but this is what we're going for!" Arc piped up from behind me, where he was mussing a few last hairs into their proper angle of standing on end. "It is all a big funeral, no? See, Sparrow is such a lover, this night he honors those who fell for him."

I caught a glance of myself in a full-length mirror, shoved to the side of the backstage area and clearly forgotten. I _did_ actually look ready to mourn. Arc had picked out uncomfortably tight black pants, a satin black shirt, and a black leather jacket, all under the artfully knotted navy scarf at my neck. Dark eye makeup was overkill in my opinion, but a small part of my mind grudgingly acknowledged that it did contrast starkly to the bright blue of my gaze. My reddish mane looked like I'd just woken up from sleeping in a pool of hairspray, which only added to the rebel-like attire. I thought back briefly to my "strawberry" outfit I'd been sewn up in for the introductory interviews, and tried to find the same laughing boy in the black-swathed man in the mirror.

"You're on, you're on!" Lucian called hurriedly as the lights offstage dimmed. "I haven't got a clue what you're going to do out there, kid, but you'd better make it good," he hissed hurriedly, then gave me a final shove that sent me tottering onstage.

Caesar was already there, getting his tie straightened by another Capitol-ite as the cameramen started counting down from ten. He gave me a warm little smile as I passed, indicating quickly where I was to stand. This time his hair was a disgusting mustard yellow, but the midnight blue suit was the same as always. His assistant scurried offstage as the countdown reached three.

At least ten beady lenses were boring their narrow sights into me as the spotlights came up and the studio audience offered their applause and the lead cameraman gave the go signal.

"Good evening, Panem, and welcome to our post-Games recap! I'm Caesar Flickerman, and joining me tonight is the one, the only, the Victor of the two hundred-sixty second Hunger Games, Sparrow Kingston!"

The applause swelled as my heart began to sink. Doing my best to keep a grimace off my expression, I sat on Caesar's cue and flashed a half-hearted grin. The supple leather of my gloves bent with me as I curled my ling fingers around the arms of my velvety chair.

"Now Sparrow," Caesar beamed over at me. "First off, congratulations are in order. Throughout these Games, you have shown not only amazing perseverance, but also a hint of your caring personality that tends to be rare in the arena. Brava!"

I thought bitterly back to the swirl of dark and twisted thoughts and confusions that had plagued me and mentally scoffed at his declaration of "perseverance."

"The plan's pretty simple," he continued conversationally. "We're just going to play out some footage from the arena and you can give us a commentary as it runs. Sound good?"

I nodded, noticing the huge screen behind us for the first time.

"Just let us know what's going on for you in each of the situations, or give us reactions to things that you haven't even seen yet! Let's roll the film."

Our spotlights dimmed, somehow making the room even stuffier, and our chairs swiveled around to the wall-sized screen behind us. I adjusted my concealed microphone nervously and did my best to brace myself for what was about to play out before my eyes. Again.

It started with the chariots. After letting the footage of the parade slide by for a few moments, Caesar nudged me and nodded up at the screen.

"Oh," I started unceremoniously. "I guess this was my first real look at the Capitol. I thought it was big. And bright. Nothing like Eleven, really." The screen changed from smiling tribute to smiling tribute, seeming to be following the parade by District. It reached the Eleven chariot and I hardly recognized the frail girl beside me in the golden vessel. "That's Rosa," I said lamely. "I, er, really liked what Arc did with these costumes. They were great."

The Twelve chariot flashed into view. Aislin grimaced off to one side of the cart. "And there's Aislin," I squeaked, trying to convince myself that I'm going to have to face her sooner than later. "She ran into me at my chariot parking spot thing. We argued." A smattering of laughter swept the audience.

Snippets of the interviews were next. "I do look sort of stupid," I said sheepishly as the footage of me asking about strawberries lit up the studio. "But it was fun," I tacked on quickly, remembering where I was and adjusting my seat in the chair. Aislin's interview, tinted with the same eye rolls and sarcastic comments the original had. "A real charmer," I said half-heartedly into the mic after a few moments of just watching the silent film. The audience was smattered with laughter.

The footage rolled by in cleverly edited segments; the launch and everyone sprinting to the Corucopia except one little boy who split off the other way ("I expected somewhere really hot, but this wasn't so bad. Sort of balmy, I guess," I stated non-commitally), then a few skirmishes that I had missed but supplied the viewer with more than enough gore to keep them entertained for the first day of the arena ("Oh, ouch, I was wondering how Rosa went down…"). Bird's eye views of Seed and I arguing rolled across next, my agitated pacing already sort of crazed. My stomach twisted as the camera angle allowed Seed's sand drawing to be easily distinguished as my own face.

"Maybe not a guy friend back home," I said uncomfortably under Caesar's expectant glance.

"That boy had something for you, I'd reckon!" he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows. I tried not to be sick on the stage—not because of the intensely weird idea of a guy liking me, but that such affections made for better entertainment when the blond was killed.

"He ditched me, though," I pointed out as we watched Seed's and my attack on the little camp. Seed was out of the shot almost as soon as he was in it, leaving me and that Six guy wrestling in the sand. We both looked like crazy savages, but it wasn't until I had him pinned that I forced myself to look down at my boot tips, knowing how my face must be contorted in that awful fury but not wanting to relive that detail. "Um," I said awkwardly to the ground, dancing with the light of the film, "It was pretty weird in there. Kind of messes… with your head…"

I risked a glance back up at the images and found a view of the complete Career pack. The Four girl, Callista, was on her feet and pacing in a way that varied from my earlier agitated motion; hers was more like a general before his troops. I recognized their location immediately, having spent a good chunk of my Games hiding out there with Aislin. It wasn't pleasant to revisit, but the completely different inhabitants helped the uncomfortable nausea that was building in my gut slightly. The group left the clearing then, and the camera followed them out to an encounter with the Five girl… they discussed something before bringing her back to the camp. "Wonder why they kept her?" I mused, though I really didn't care and felt honestly sorry for the little girl.

"They wanted to use her trap making skills," Caesar answered eagerly. "Clever, right?"

I just nodded vaguely.

The next footage was swathed in the awful snow that had taken brief residence over the sand; a small campfire lit an unfamiliar clearing. Soon enough, the Eight girl emerged from the bushes and they had a small face-off before seemingly agreeing to an alliance. "I never ran into these two together," I commented, "but that fire was scary amazing. That was Six, right?"

"Her own plan and trap," Caesar answered, eyes glued to the screen. The short scene ended and was replaced with a brief sequence of the Ten girl perched at the top of the rocky cliff that had loomed in the middle of the island; she watched the Careers far below. Once in a while, the shot would change to look up at the Careers, with the Ten girl's head in the background. They seemed to be arguing about the Five girl again. I did my best to say interesting things about situations that were long past and involved kids who were all dead now. Seed was suddenly in the picture, with the quiver of arrows he had me to thank for, and a scene ensued that involved both Tens and the blond boy.

"Okay, so the Ten boy got Seed," I reviewed pointlessly out loud as the One boy crumpled to the snow.

But the next sequence was of me kneeling at the Three boy's side, knees soaked in melted snow and blood. I couldn't read my own face—pity, I think, was what paled it. I looked slightly ridiculous in a huge wool coat and fur boots over my skimpy tank top and shorts, but at least my fingertips were no longer bluish and my toes were covered. Frozen memories of the icy nights threatened to creep back to the front of my mind, but just as my mouth went dry the screen showed my murder under his soft pleads. The audience drew a little gasp.

"He literally asked for it," I informed them as the me on the screen left the dead boy to his own better place.

"It was a very valiant kill," Caesar agreed solemnly.

Now the arena-Sparrow was arguing with the Six boy in brand new sunshine. I vividly remembered that day; and how much of a jerk the now-dead boy had been. Guilt coursed through my system at my own disrespect of the dead. Back home, everyone was brought up to let go of any grudges or ill feelings for a person as soon as he or she died. Death, we believed, washed away all the wrongdoings that person might have committed in life, leaving us all as equals in whatever's beyond that.

Now Aislin was waking up on the screen, and tottering around and slapping me. My own cheek stung with the memory, but it wasn't the sort of agonistic sting I'd encountered later—this was a much happier and accepting pain. The audience chuckled lightly at the scene as if it was their own fond memory.

"That hurt," I told them stoically, which only earned more chortles from the crowd.

The Careers were back but fewer in numbers; it was obvious how edited this scene was by the almost choppy way one cut slid to the next, and the change of scenery behind the same characters. Callista lead the group, as I got the feeling she had all along, as they gathered their stuff and vacated the pool clearing.

"So they left because…?"

"Because Callista had a water purifier—and they were off to the ocean, you see, because she had this brilliant plan about using it as a base and such," Caesar filled me in as if spilling the local gossip.

I forgot about my commentary altogether for a while as I watched an encounter between the Eight, Six, and Ten girls, but was shocked back into attention as I watched myself dart toward the Cornucopia with Aislin, the Feast clearly under way.

"That was actually really scary," I commented, watching myself slouch behind Aislin as she took a slice out of the Nine girl who'd been standing too close. The Two boy came up behind her, as I knew he would, and she clawed out his face before I got to land my punch firmly on his nose. The adrenaline rush that'd been…

"Pretty nice hit," I said blandly. "Actually, I think that was the only time I've ever hit someone." The Feast played out, and I was struck with how odd it was to watch myself do things that I could only remember as a blur of adrenaline and sensations. The Two boy's and my struggle in the sand looked even more vicious than I remembered it, and I wondered idly if they'd edited the film to make me look good.

The Eight and Six girl ran into the Careers at the waterside with those horrible mutts. I made a few tasteful comments, but stuck to a minimum, as my mind was too full of the actual experiences to comprise for a 2D rendition.

But then it was Ash and me, parading through the palms like we owned the place. I knew exactly what we were saying, even though the audio for the film had been replaced with dramatic music.

"She refused to tell me where we were going," I informed Caesar. "Which wasn't really out of character, but still sort of irritating. Then we heard water…" We watched the pair of us sprint for the clearing, and our reactions to the pool we found there.

The pair on the screen opened their Feast packs. My stomach clenched at the sight of the whip as I tugged it from my bag and promptly stuffed it back in. A few pitiful moans came from the audience as the Sparrow on screen paled. "Ash sort of refused to take her meds, which was really bad, but then she sort of tore open her cut again…" the footage of said event rolled across the screen. It made me look a like some sort of knight in shining armor, rushing to Aislin's rescue, and I wondered again how the film editors did that. "Then I started to realize what the stuff did to her. It sort of freaked me out," I confessed, but it was obvious from my expression onscreen that I hadn't a clue how to deal with this new Aislin.

The crowd laughed at the tottering girl on the screen and my bewildered reactions. I gave half-hearted comments about how stupid I'd felt, and how different she'd been, and so on. The scene changed right as I was about to puke from the lies and pressure and vividly detailed memories.

This was another short one, and I took the time to steady my breathing and remember that I was supposed to be all healed and nice again… my dark outfit did nothing to reinforce the fact, so it was all up to my attitude to convince Panem of how great the Capitol was at healing even the deepest breaks. The scene concluded with the Six girl's neck savagely snapped under the Two boy's arm, and a horrified gasp from the crowd.

My somewhat epic chase of the little Twelve boy rolled by next, and I was momentarily shocked at the fact that it was me chasing down that redhead twelve-year-old with every intention to kill him after I'd caught him. Ash did it for me.

I braced myself for what I knew was next. Just Aislin and me in our clearing. Me noticing the birds and pointing them out to her gleefully; the sort of happiness that I knew would be rare in this certain film from this point on.

"So we were just talking," I said lamely under another one of Caesar's glances, "and I guess it just got to more serious topics. I mean, it was the Final eight and we were supposed to split off… but I guess I didn't want to."

The audience _aww_'d as the Aislin and Sparrow onscreen continued their discussion. I braced myself for what I knew happened next, doing my very best not to relive the thoughts that had been smashing all over my head as the strong girl I'd thought I knew turned to a blubbering wreck that somehow turned me on.

The film editors did a fantastic job with the cut as I attacked her face. Watching it replay in front of my face was the closest to pushing me over the edge as I had been all night. The kiss was hot, and romantic, and desperate—it had the audience's hearts leaping out of their chests. I bit down hard on my cheek and watched my boots until I was sure the scene was over, and even then I refused to fill them in with a first-hand recollection of that certain part.

My attention was gripped by the sight of a very small herd of the mutts that I'd been forced to fight off at the end, accompanied by the Eight girl and the Careers.

"They must have already tracked her by then," I thought out loud, in an attempt to help my so-far completely lame commentary. "Because of the stone in her ring. Wonder why they didn't hurt her…"

The deceased tributes on the screen argued back and forth, and someone died. I could hardly track what was going on in a world so far from what I thought was real.

But the next cut made me squirm in my chair, filled with a different sort of disgust than my kiss had brought on. The dark arena was filled with brilliant firelight and a suspended ball of flames; within the dancing fire two figures were hardly recognizable, twisting and curling into themselves in agony.

"That's sick," I said quietly. "That's really, truly sick."

It faded dramatically to a scene that was very, very close to sending me sprinting off stage and out of the studio; pelting through the streets of the Capitol with no where to go seemed like a much better option than reigniting the inferno that was tied with the death of a certain Twelve girl.

"She," I croaked, suddenly aware that my voice was not about to cooperate. I wiped my sweaty palms on my chair and ran my tongue around my mouth a few times as the Aislin and Sparrow onscreen played the most horrible game of rock, paper, scissors. Even then, my hands were hideous and wrong. They knew exactly what this meant when I was too naïve to. "She asked me to. And… and I should never have…"

Caesar's hand was suddenly on my leg. "It was brave, what you did," he said gently; a response that I had not expected in the slightest. "You ended her life with ease and peace. She went down in a way that many, many others would envy. And she was with you."

I stared back at him, the sudden urge to use these terrible hands of mine to throttle him growing steadily in the back of my throat. "Bravery is excepting that I'm going to hell. Cowardice is accepting excuses to make the trip easier."

He was silenced for the duration of the most tragic scene of all. My cries of hysteria and pain, although silenced by the swelling soundtrack, were apparent on my face as I left her limp body behind and pelted through the woods as if I could outrun my wrongs. Stupid me. I would have to be rid of my own hands to do that…

I looked like someone who'd already met the devil when the cameras closed in on my face and I clawed at my own scalp. It was the Four boy, I realized, that didn't kill me. I couldn't decide whether I was grateful or not.

The shots turned to Callista, running to the Cornucopia with her own stone safe in hand, and I wondered why they'd cut the piece where I'd received my own stone. Probably to leave them with that horrible image of me to contrast with the somewhat stronger one they were now faced with.

It cut to me, receiving my beautiful scythe with a triumphant fist, before flickering back to Callista's sprint through the palms. The film continued in this dramatic way as the music swelled to a climax and the Four boy was graphically killed by the suddenly mutinous mutts. I burst into the clearing with my scythe and did my best to hack off the creatures nearest me, while Callista joined the climactic scene.

"By then, I really didn't think I stood a chance. She was a Career, and way more skilled and strong than me… but I don't think either of us expected what happened next…"

But just as the mutts were closing in on us, and Cal I and I were forced back to back, the shot changed. Everything was identical, but from a different angle, so that my hardly recognizable figure was the only one seen from behind the Cornucopia. Something about this bit was off, but I couldn't tell what… the mutts weren't disappearing… Then the Sparrow onscreen turned around to swing his scythe at where Cal must be standing, and the trumpets blared.

I'm not sure of everything in the arena, but the memories of standing with the Four girl alone in the middle of nowhere were very, very clear as I recalled them. Never did I kill her with my scythe. Never did the mutts just sort of stop charging as I was hovercrafted out.

The film was a lie. But I seemed to be the only one who knew it.

.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.:!:.

Lucian clapped my back appreciatively after I'd been ushered offstage. "Don't," he warned just as I opened my mouth, "say anything. They edited it. Faked that end. _Don't say anything_. You're back on in thirty seconds."

Confusion clouded my thoughts, my uncertainty clear in my astounded silence. Lucian sighed and leaned in toward me. "The Victor's Presentation? C'mon, now, get in your head! Keep it calm and cool—the 'rents out there won't like you, but just remember that you're a Victor and nothing can touch you right now. Go!"

My thoughts just as muddled up as before, I was thrust back onstage to join a still-smiling Caesar, but brand new studio audience. The faces of the last segment had all been Capitol-ites; brightly painted skin and oddly colorful manes of hair. But these people were obviously from the Districts. Even their careful makeup and brand new outfits could not hide how thin and sallow-faced most were; at least half had puffy eyes or red-rimmed cheeks.

I swallowed, suddenly aware that the families of all the kids who'd just been slaughtered were sizing me up and deciding already that I was no Victor.

"Welcome, dear ones, to the Victor's Presentation!" Caesar turned to face the camera. "Since the abolishment of the tiresome and outdated Victor's Tour after the fourth Quell, we ask the families and close friends of all twenty-four tributes to come to the center of the action—right here at the Capitol, to meet and speak to our Victor. Meanwhile, I'll be personally speaking with each one to get the inside scoop on their reaction to the Games."

My spotlight died out, and I was left in the shadows while Caesar waltzed offstage to go target a weeping mother. All the cameras moved with him, leaving me feeling utterly alone, still up on the empty stage.

One of the crewmen offstage gestured dramatically for me to go mingle; I tripped off the shallow stage and was immediately swarmed by a small woman with a shock of red hair. She was about a head shorter than me and reeked of Capitol perfume, despite her obvious origins in the Districts.

"I hope you're happy," she hissed sharply. Her vein-y hands knuckled her hips. "Our only son. Your girlfriend killed our only son—when he was down! How _dare_ you allow—"

But her waggling finger froze as a nearby Avox clothed in a stark white body suit began to raise her slim hand. The lady chomped down on her lower lip and temporarily directed her glare at the pretty young Avox, who stared back coolly before moving on through the crowd.

"I guess I have to say congratulations," she said to me stiffly, offering a reluctant hand. I hesitated a moment too long before shaking it; she squeezed my hand so hard I wondered if the Capitol doctor had put new stronger bones in it. The red haired woman weaseled off into the crowd without a second glance at me.

It was strange, being in this huge studio with the families who were grieving over the children that I helped, in one way or another, to kill. All eyes were on me; I could feel the accusational eyes following my movements through the people but never caught someone in the act of staring. A few more parents came up to me to give a very formal and rehearsed congratulations before taking their leave, but most just watched and waited for someone to tell them they could leave. After weaving through the District folk for a whole fifteen minutes and only speaking to four of them, I realized that there were three Avox girls (all hand-picked, I assumed, for their beauty) wandering the crowd as I did; occasionally one would begin to raise a white-clothed hand and a small bout of silence would fall on those closest to her.

_How sick_, I thought. _They must be listening for anyone saying bad things about me…_

"Congratulations," a deep voice rumbled to my left. I spun clumsily on my heel to face an enormous man with cropped hair and a brand new shirt that I could guarantee wasn't his.

"Thank you," I responded as seriously as he had addressed me; we shook hands.

"I'm Lilia's father," he continued stonily. I tried to hide my humiliation by looking down at my boots.

"You don't know who that is, do you?" he questioned, more softly than before. I shook my head, ashamed to be facing a father without a daughter, killed by the arena that had crowned me, and not even able to remember a name.

"The District Five girl. With the quick little hands," a ghost of a smile flashed across his broad lips before he released my hands and cleared his throat gruffly. With another awkward glance down at me, he left.

My own family, of course, wasn't there. The thought made my heart sink a little; they were perhaps the only ones in Panem happy to see me come back. Well, maybe District Eleven would be… but maybe not, considering what my hands have done…

"I don't blame you, you know," a slightly lighter male's voice informed me. I turned to face a boy about my age, with darker hair and a faint aroma of magnolia. (I only recognized the flora because my mom has a flowerbox outside her window, and her favorites are magnolias.)

"Don't blame me?" I countered thoughtlessly.

"For what you did in there. You were just trying to stay alive."

"Right." I nodded, knowing full well that this guy hated my guts just as much as the first lady but was either too scared or polite to express it.

"Better you than a Four," he continued blandly, his gaze slipping out of the immediate room and into his thoughts.

"Was your sister…?" I probed cautiously.

"My friend. Analyse. You probably don't remember her, I don't think you two ever really met…"

"Six?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. I'm sorry…" My hideous hand found a groove on his shoulder to rest for a moment. He glanced down at it and removed it with his bare hand, holding it there for a heartbeat too long before quickly whisking off through the crowd.

That could be me, I thought. I could be here mourning River. Or Falcon. I could be the one trying to be nice to the murderer of my family…

But just as I was ready to find a bathroom and hide in it, something caught me eye. Or rather, someone.

The sort of flutter that had long since died in my chest reignited in such a sudden burst of energy the breath was knocked out of my chest. For a moment, I did nothing but stare and hope she saw me too.

_It's not her_, I scolded myself. _Not her at all. She just looks like her. It's not her, she'll probably hate you, it's not her—_

But she was walking toward me and I had no idea what to do other than freeze on the spot and watch her approach. A Capitol dress hugged her sides and swirled around her thighs, leading up to a face I thought I would never see again and eyes that penetrated mine with an intensity that could have been pure love or pure hate; I didn't care, because those eyes were on me and just me and no one else in the room seemed to notice the way they glowed softly in the dim studio lights…

And then she was standing in front of me. Just her and me. My brain didn't have room for anything else for that moment.

"I'm sorry," I said, but it came out as a hoarse sort of whisper.

"So am I."

Her voice was even the same; her A's had that slightly short feel that only Twelves do and the tiniest hiss on the _sh_.

She extended one of her olive-y hands; I was almost too polite to take it into my own, but gave into the touch so similar to the one I destroyed after a moment.

"I'm Sparrow Kingston," I said quietly.

"I'm Skye."

* * *

**And fin.**

That's the end. Really. Only Chapter 26.5 is left, and of course I've decided to tweak that a bit so it'll be up when my brain starts functioning properly. Thanks again to Writting2StayHalfSane for her awesome job beta-ing, and to everyone who's favorited, reviewed, read, opened, glanced at, considered, or heard about LYGB.  
I look forward to working with some of you again in _Among the Damned_. Look for my character call in mid-June.

**And may the odds continue to be in your favor.**  
**Topsy **


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